Seeing Red ('Cause That's a Lot of Blood)
by AnimationGirl
Summary: The Red Team is not having a good day. Grif is shot and has to depend on Sarge to save him - much to their mutual discomfort. Simmons tries to get them out of their ridiculous mess while Donut makes warthog drives way too long. Meanwhile, Lopez is left behind to fix vehicles and Jensen is not about to make it easy. The Reds are not about to have fun but then again, do they ever?
1. Hindsight Is a Bitch

A/N: I do not own Red vs. Blue

Set after season 13 (not that it matters that much – Church wouldn't have appeared in this story no matter what), but it is not really that important, I guess.

Also, credit to NJ7009 for helping me with the summary. You are a sweetheart and you know it! (But pudding is still disgusting, and you know it! I win that argument, and I make it official here!)

 **Seeing Red ('Cause That's a Lot of Blood)** _ **  
**_ _Hindsight Is a Bitch_

' _Bullshit_ ', Grif thought even before the battle began. They had not even known it would evolve into an actual fight. It was still bullshit, though. After ditching one too many training sessions, Simmons had dragged him by the arm – or, actually, he had made a fake promise about a confiscated box of snack cakes that were free for Grif to steal (in hindsight, he really should have noticed how suspiciously good that had sounded) – to place him in front of Kimball who had demanded him to start working.

"What work?" he had demanded to know. "We fucking won!" And so they had. Kinda. Well, they had survived. Or, you know, Church hadn't. But that was Church. Didn't fucking count, considering the amount of times Church had died and come back. So maybe this time he had left a big sappy goodbye speech that had made Donut bawl for hours (which really wasn't that big a deal, considering the fact it was fucking Donut), but this was Church. Grif would still put his money on the fact that in a year he would return and be just as annoying as he had always been. 'cause that was just how the Blues worked. Right?

So everyone, except Church, had made it off the ship. Too bad everyone also included Hargrove who had managed to flee as well. And as long as that fucker was still alive, Chorus still had stuff to deal with.

Like the remaining pirates who were still skulking around on the planets because for some fucked up reason Chorus could never have total peace. And, as a consequence, neither could Grif.

"You are aware of Blue Team's mission today?" Kimball asked, like it had not been the hot subject during lunch.

"Yeah, they are raiding that compound. The one north of Crash Site Alpha?" If he brought in enough facts, he could fool her into believing he was a good attentive soldier, and then perhaps Kimball would go easy on him during this meeting, whatever it might bring him. Grif was still not quite sure why he was here. As in _here_ – Kimball's office. It was too early to wonder about life's great mysteries. "What? Do they need my help?" he snorted, although they were both painfully aware that it could not be the case.

Kimball had to be smiling behind her visor. Her tone was just a bit too smug when she said: "Actually-" Grif visibly deflated by that one word. "-the cargo turned out to be less valuable than expected. More men than cargo – and those men ran when the others attacked. Currently, Blue Team is tracking them down but someone needs to extract the cargo we did attain."

"So, is this cue my speech? 'cause I just have the urge to mention future cubes – the cubes of the future."

"As you should be aware, our supply of the transportation cubes-" As she refused to call the cubes by their original and proper name, Grif could not help but let out a small sigh. "-is dwindling. Right now, we are talking about a few yet valuable crates. Wash counted six. We can't waste the few resources we have left to retrieve them. The area has been cleared of enemies but the cargo needs to be recovered as quickly as possible. I hear you're an efficient driver."

"Right. Road trip. I'll go fetch Simmons –"

"Captain Simmons and Donut have already been assigned to weapon delegation. The armory is still pure chaos after the attack on Hargrove and they are the only ones who seem to have a clue on what to do with the remains."

Right, 'cause even though Grif did work in the armory, that did not make him qualified? Well, okay, he did spend most of his time trying to sneak away from Simmons to find a good place to nap, but still, he had laid ears to the whining soldiers ("I want a shotgun!" – "My rocket launcher has no rockets!" – "My gun malfunctioned and I accidently shot my friend!") just like the rest of his team.

Kimball continued nonetheless. "Lopez is spending the day at the garage. I think."

So Kimball did not know Spanish either. That made the robot just as useful as before they landed on Chorus! "And since this mission is a matter of heading to point A and return with the cargo to point B, I figured you would be willing to make the trip."

'Willing' was a very strong word. But spending some hours in a jeep, picking up a couple of crates and then driving home sounded hell of a lot nicer than fucking dish duty. If this could keep Kimball off his back for a while, he would do it. "So I'm going alone?"

"No. You will be heading out there with backup, just in case."

' _Just in case of what?_ ' Grif was about to ask (hindsight was a bitch because that was a really good question) when a greater worry filled his mind.

"So who am I going…?"

Grif considered the question for a moment when the realization hit him like the butt of a shotgun to the face – a bad omen. "You have got to be fucking kidding me!"

What fucking _bullshit_.

* * *

Simmons' jaw dropped as he slowly turned around to get a proper view of the storage room. He was pretty glad he was wearing his helmet. At least the visor worked as a shield against all this… Donut-ness.

He walked out of the storage room to join the pink soldier by the desk. "Donut, did you move around the boxes?" And that was a vast understatement.

"If 'move around' means 'organizing spotlessly', then yes! Isn't it just a delight to the eye?" Donut grinned, far too pleased with himself.

Simmons wanted to shake his head, but settled with spreading his arms out in despair. "But it was already organized! _I've_ already organized it!"

Donut put his hands on his hips. "Now that's not true. It looked like a mess in there!"

"No, it didn't!" Simmons shrieked, obviously offended. "I spent hours putting all the boxes in alphabetical order! It cut down our service time by 34 percent!"

"But it was ugly!" Donut declared confidently, like a lawyer that [] knew they had won the court case. "Seriously, Simmons, a colorblind could have made a better arrangement, and I've seen how Grif's sister looked under the armor. Not pretty, I tell you. Azure blue tank top with merlot-colored shorts – someone was definitely not up to date with the latest fashion, nah-ah! Luckily, there was still hope for the storage room. I had to get on my knees in order to get the job done, but now all the packages are just right, no matter which size or shape! Oh, it took more than just sweat and blood to get the room's color schemes sorted!"

They walked into the room to survey the damage – Donut with a bounce in his steps and Simmons' legs being weighed down by despair.

"Donut, what have you done?" he asked in horror as they stepped into the chaos.

"Look! Isn't it a masterpiece? Now the armory signals control and happiness!"

To be fair, Donut had put quite the work into this. It began with the purple boxes and crates on the lower shelves, and as Simmons' raised glance, the color changed into blue, green, yellow, orange and then finally red on the top shelves. Donut had, somehow, turned the storage room into a representation of a rainbow. Simmons was not sure whether to be horrified or amazed that the pink soldier had somehow turned a war-related facility into a ray of sunshine.

"Oh, it signals something, alright," Simmons muttered flatly.

"Hey, losers!" someone – they knew who – called out from behind them. "Stop slacking off before Kimball gets to you to – I don't need more assholes in my car!"

Simmons sighed. He had not expected the orange soldier to find them so quickly, though he should have expected it. He had, after all, been the one to put him in front of Kimball. "Hey, Grif."

Grif joined the others in the storage room and resisted the urge to raise a hand in order to shield his eyes. "Holy crap. Did you move in here, Donut?"

"Well, they do say your working place is your second home, though I admit this would be a bit of a tight space to get yourself comfortable in. Not that I wouldn't try my hardest!"

"I'm sure you would, Donut," Grif said deflated before turning to Simmons with his rifle in his hands. "Loading up for a cargo trip. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

"It's your own damn fault for being a lazy fatass," Simmons spat, turning around to pick up the ammunition Grif needed only to realize he was facing a green box containing rockets. Cursing mentally, be began searching through Donut's so-called arrangement to find the right package. "If you hadn't fallen asleep during the last meeting, you probably could have lasted another week before Kimball had enough. I still don't understand how you thought you could skip Wash' training courses five days in a row."

While Donut followed Simmons around to carefully correct the boxes Simmons pulled out (with more and more aggression - he kept failing to find the correct bullets) Grif watched them work with no desire to step forward and help. "Hey, Simmons. Newsflash – the war is fucking over. Why do we need to be training now?"

Simmons replied in a flat tone without even looking at him: "Because, Grif, newsflash – the Blues are out fighting pirates right now."

"Yeah, and we're working in the armory. The only time we need to be running is when the mess hall finally bakes cookies and they announce limited portions."

Simmons turned over a box to read its bottom, resulting in its contents falling to the ground. Simmons let out a pained sigh while Donut immediately began to fix the mess. "Correction: we – as in Donut and I – are working in the armory. You're out in the fucking field."

"To pick up some stupid crates the others left behind. It's not like Wash' training prepared me for it – I learned to drive before I got drafted."

Simmons finally found the right box and pulled out two packages with ammunitions that he harshly shoved into Grif's hands. "If the mission is that harmless, then why do you need bullets, dumbass?"

"To have an easy way out when Sarge finally drives me insane," Grif replied dryly. "And you're the one to talk. You're fucking armory clerks, and you still have a fucking rifle over your shoulder, which, by the way, is covered by full body armor."

Simmons shifted his feet, knowing that Grif had a pretty good argument. "Yeah, well, old habits die hard."

The mess cleared, Donut rose to add to the conversation, "And you have to admit, Grif, the colors are a part of our charm! I personally can't imagine walking around without the ability to stand out in the crowd with my light-ish red outfit."

"You've certainly changed your mind since your first day with your armor, Donut," Simmons said, eying the pink soldier for a moment before taking in the new glory of the storage room again.

"Well, I hadn't taken the big leap back then. I was not ready to terms with the fact that I was –" He made a dramatic pause before continuing: "-man enough to wear the color. They say clothes make the man but I say it takes quite the man to fill them out."

They took a second to let that statement sink in (or rather, erase from memory) before Grif smacked his lips and declared: "As fun as this conversation is, I have a mission to complete. Sucks to be me. Have fun."

Before marching out of the room, he quickly stopped and turned on his heel to face Simmons. "Hey, if this thing drags out, you better save my dinner for me. And keep it warm. Some of us are working hard."

Simmons rolled his eyes behind the visor. "Just try not to drive into a ditch, asshole. Lopez will beat you up if you wreck another car. He has enough wreckage to work with already."

"Not like he is ever allowed to have a break in this place," Grif muttered darkly under his breath.

And as if the universe had some kind of perfect timing mechanism, Sarge showed up from out of the blue (or, since this was Sarge, out of the red) to angrily push the service bell on the front desk. "Grif, I need you to prep our vehicle pronto. We need to leave now in order to get back before the Blues."

"Why? This is not a race. We're not even on the same mission!"

"Fire up the jeep or I'll fire up your hide," Sarge growled. "Now, dirtbag."

As he walked out of the armory, Grif angrily exclaimed: "Oh, just shoot me already!"

Later, the irony would not be lost on Simmons.

* * *

Lopez was, in fact, having a relatively good day so far (boy, was that about to change soon!). The term 'a good day' basically meant a day without the Reds. Or Blues. Or anyone that could make a mess out of the stuff he had just fixed.

So Lopez was as happy as a robot could be as he lay under the warthog in order to get a better view of the problem. It was a nice position, actually. Quiet. Lonesome.

Reaching out to grab the wrench that had been placed next to the car, Lopez would have frowned in annoyance had he been able to do so, when a couple of red boots kicked the tool away as the soldier marched straight forward without even realizing he had stepped on something.

Lopez pulled himself up from the ground to confirm his fears.

Sarge spotted him immediately. "Lopez! You've prepared for the car for us, huh? So effective you finished Grif's job before he even got here."

"Hey, I was briefed about this mission like ten minutes ago. Can't blame me for being unprepared," the orange soldier defended himself as he stepped into the scene and Lopez' mood fell another inch.

"Not only do we have to put up with your normal level of laziness – now you are not preparing for orders you have not even been given yet. I would call that planning ahead if it weren't the completely opposite of what you are doing."

Grif was about to argue with Sarge when he realized it would have no effect whatsoever, so instead he turned to Lopez who was now standing up. "So this jeep is fixed?" he asked, knowing that the majority of their vehicles were still busted after their conflict with Hargrove.

"Sí. Está arreglado. Es por esto que yo estaba tendido debajo de él con una herramienta en mi mano, tonto." [Yes. It is fixed. That is why I was lying under it with a tool in my hand, moron.]

Grif who was able to pick up the few words of Spanish he understood but not able to detect sarcasm, said: "Great." After all, if Lopez had wanted to kill them, he would have done it a long time ago.

Lopez decided to give them a fair (or maybe not so fair) warning. "El depósito de gasolina está goteando."[The fuel tank is leaking.]

"Nothing better than a tuned-up jeep fit for the battle," Sarge chuckled as he swung himself into the vehicle.

"Si explota, no voy a reparar él otra vez."[If it explodes I will not fix it again.]

Grif, completely ignoring Lopez because if the robot wanted to say something important it was about damn time that he learned to talk English, jumped into the driver's seat and said: "Hey, Sarge – hate to break it to you, but we are not heading out there to fight."

"Y si acabarse la gasoline, por favor no volver." [And if you run out of gas, please do not return.]

Sarge set his visor on Grif and asked dryly: "Then why did they ask for me and my shotgun?"

"I don't know," Grif shrugged. "To punish me a bit further?"

"Huh. Good point." With a final huff, Sarge leaned out of the warthog to look down at the robot. "Goodbye, Lopez. Take care of yourself while we are gone."

"Espero que el jeep puede durar el tiempo suficiente para que estaís muy lejos de aqui cuando se rompe." [I hope the jeep will last long enough for you to be far away from here when it breaks.]

"I love you too, Lopez."

Grif turned the ignition and the jeep which sprung to life with a reassuring growl.

Sarge leaned back in his seat and said with delight, "Purrs like a cat."

Behind his visor, Grif smiled smugly and added, "Yeah, like a puma."

And Sarge immediately smacked his shotgun against Grif's helmet, earning an "Ow" before the two of them drove off, leaving Lopez behind. Unaware of how the day would eventually turn out, he picked up his tools and headed to the next car.

The silence did not last for long, however.

"Hello, Lopez!" Jensen lisped happily as she walked close to his vehicle in the big garage, a tool box in her hand.

Lopez did not look away from the jeep, but automatically responded, "Hola."

"And I thought I would be the only mechanic down here today," Jensen chirped and, to Lopez' horror, put down her tool box as she settled down next to him. "The others are all busy with Feierstein's birthday party – not that I wasn't invited, we just never saw eye to eye after I completely overshadowed her version of 'Imagine' in the last season of Chorus Idol." She coughed to cover up the passionate lisp she had just let out.

Lopez did not answer – partly because he had no comment on that information and partly because he hoped his silence would make her go away as quickly as possible.

Jensen did not seem bothered by the silence, but instead exclaimed, "Oh my, is that a VDO 1x85mm screwdriver?"

The robot slowly looked down at the tool in his hand. "Sí."

"I've been looking all the over HQ for this beauty! Would have made yesterday's work a lot easier." She crouched down next to him, visor set on the tool. "Is it yours?"

"Sí."

She tilted her head hopefully. "Can I borrow it?"

Very slowly, Lopez handed her it. "Thank you!" Jensen lisped happily and hummed as she began to work on the jeep.

Lopez was rather annoyed that she had taken over his vehicle, but knowing that they had a whole garage full busted vehicles, he simply moved on to the next broken jeep right next to him. While Jensen had interrupted his peace and quiet, she was at least not one of his so-called teammates, and now when she was at a safe distance, Lopez sink into his work again.

So when Jensen suddenly popped up, staring over his shoulder, Lopez grew annoyed once again.

"This one's really busted, huh?" Jensen said and opened a panel to begin her work.

"¿Por que trabajas en el jeep mismo como yo? Hey literalmente un garaje todo que está lleno de vehículos averiados. " [Why are you working on the same car as I? There's literally a whole garage full of broken vehicles.]

"I'm afraid I can't speak Spanish," Jensen said with a apologetic tone. "I never had the time while I was studying engineering and basic mechanic, oh and the military practice of course."

"¡Qué sorpresa!" [What a surprise!]

"But 'vehículos' sounds a lot like 'vehicles' so I suppose you are saying we have a lot of work ahead."

Lopez paused before admitting, "Eso no era demasiado malo. Al menos lo que está diciendo es verdad." [That was not too bad. At least what you are saying is true.]

Jensen was suddenly pointing at a white smear on the front of the jeep. "Oh, I think I might have been the one to wreck this one. See? That is paint from Gutterson's armor. Doctor Grey says he'll be out of the hospital in a few days. Minor concussion. Wasn't even angry. Didn't even yell at me, but that might have been caused by the lack of consciousness."

"Dios mío."

Jensen looked down at the tool in her hand. "I'm a better mechanic than a driver."

"Yo sé. He visto te correr." [I know that. I have seen you drive.]

"I usually work alone down here. It's a nice change to talk with someone while fixing stuff," Jensen sad before disappearing under the jeep to check for any interior damage.

Lopez considered walking away while she was busy, but figured she would just keep following him. "No estamos conversando. No entiendes lo que estoy hablando." [We are not talking together. You do not understand what I am saying.]

"It's a good thing you lent me that screwdriver! I think the problem is this loose screw," Jensen's muffled voice came from under the jeep.

Lopez tried to sigh. "Sí. Hay señaladamente un tornillo suelto en algún logar." [Yes. There is definitely a screw loose somewhere.]

* * *

"Drive faster, numbnuts."

Grif had tried to keep his eyes on the road straight ahead, but now he had to turn his head to stare at the Red Colonel. "You sure, Sarge? Wouldn't want to get you carsick," he said dryly.

Next to him, Sarge growled, "You want to drag this scene out? You're getting me all misty-eyed here, Grif, you wanting to spend time with your favorite Sergeant."

"You're not even a Sergeant anymore! You're a fucking Colonel, for whatever reason!"

"Damn right I am! That means you better step the gas before you turn this tense uncomfortable situation into a long-drawn-out tense uncomfortable situation that I will have to put an end to – which, inevitably, means your end."

Tightening his grip on the steering wheel, Grif could not help but ask, "Why the fuck did you even agree to go on this mission? I'd expected you to follow the Blues into a gunfight instead of choosing a lame road trip." Amazing as it was, Sarge had sometimes left them behind to go on missions with the Blues instead. Grif had almost been unable to comprehend it at first, but if Sarge could put away his distaste for the Blues in his hunger for a firefight, Grif would be the last person to stop him.

"Don't you think I am happy with this outcome, dirtbag. One hormone-driven perverted Blue who uses dancing moves as warm-up – that I can handle. Beat. Maybe even slightly outshine by one last shotgun-shell to the head to add to my kill count. But the perverted Blue, a mentally traumatized Blue, a rather trigger-happy Agent Washington and, what we fear but shall never say out loud in respect for our remaining healthy organs, an unstable Agent Carolina running on the exquisite yet dangerously delicate cocktail of grief and the need for revenge? I'd choose you every day."

Grif frowned, unsure of what he had just been told. "Uh… Thanks?"

"That wasn't a compliment."

Grif could live with that and did not complain. But that meant the uncomfortable silence fell over them again, with only Sarge's growls to destroy it time to time whenever he thought of something that caused him annoyance (Grif would put money on this subject being either himself or the Blues).

Finally, he could not take it any longer and reached out his arm to turn on the radio. The warthog's theme song immediately drowned out their thoughts.

"Turn that junk off," Sarge barked, staring daggers at the radio.

Grif did what he was told, but left his hand hovering above the panel. "So we are preferring the awkward silence now?"

"Won't be any silence when you are screaming like a pig. You think that hand will stop me from blasting the radio?"

When Sarge raised his shotgun to aim at the radio, Grif had to retract his hand. He did need that limb to drive, after all. And shoot. And eat. And… stuff. Having hands was important.

But it did not make the silence any more bearable.

Grif tried to focus on their surroundings (oh look, another stupid tree! Oh look, a rock!) and, of course, the road so he could keep his promise to Simmons and not drive into a ditch. In the end, it was Sarge who had enough. Letting out a growl, he suddenly turned the radio back on, letting the music warn their surroundings of their presence.

Leaning back in his seat, Grif could not help but smile smugly at this small victory.

Sarge cocked his shotgun. "Don't think I can't see that stupid grin on your face, dirtbag."

"I'm wearing a helmet for fuck's sake!"

* * *

"Oh for the love of-" Several boxes fell from the shelf Simmons had been trying to reach which resulted in them landing on his head. Winching, Simmons called out, "Donut, this isn't working!"

Leaving the desk to see the problem for himself, Donut entered the storage room. With his hands on his hips, he eyed Simmons who was angrily brushing dust off himself. "Well, you certainly don't look happy."

"You put the shotguns next to the .22 calibers bullets! That makes zero sense!" Simmons shrieked and grabbed his helmet in frustration. He was used to being the only one able to see the strategy in organizing, but this was a whole new level of obliviousness from his teammate. "What is your practical theory in all of this?! Am I just supposed to remember this specific model comes in a red box?!"

"Silly Simmons, that's not red – that's currant," Donut said forbearingly, gesturing towards the box that Simmons was pointing at.

Simmons stared at the box, breathed in deeply, and then turned to his teammate again. "Donut, this is not functional!" He paused and wondered if it was necessary to bring Kimball into this. He would rather not, as he would like to at least pretend to have the armory under control. "What do you want to do when a customer arrives? Ask them which color suits them?"

"Judging from the lack of burgundy and olive colors, I say no one here has caught up on the latest fashion trend. It wouldn't hurt to give them some tips."

"That probably won't save them should they be attacked."

Donut seemed pretty happy with Simmons' (ironic) suggestion and said, "But they would blind the enemy with their extravagant style."

Simmons had already opened his mouth to disagree (because there was certainly a need for disagreement) when someone cleared their throat behind them. They both turned around to see a customer eyeing the service bell before realizing he had been noticed.

"Donut, can you handle that while I fix this mess?" Simmons asked, gesturing towards the fallen boxes. At least none of the rockets had exploded.

Donut nodded and eyed the customer carefully with a tilted head and a hand on his hip. Finally he came to the conclusion: "Plum and white."

"That's not what I meant!" Simmons shrieked, not even the slightest impressed by Donut's ability to give fashion tips to a person who was already covered by full body armor.

"Don't worry, Simmons," Donut reassured him before heading towards the desk. "I'll never leave any customer unsatisfied."

"This is going to be a long day," Simmons sighed as he began to clean up the mess.

That may have been the truest words ever spoken.

* * *

The jeep came to a stop with a strange gurgling noise that made Grif freeze in his seat. "Huh, that's weird," he mumbled, eying the steering wheel as if it was disrespecting him behind his back.

"Finally." Sarge jumped out of the jeep, clearly unaware that the stop was not completely unintentional. They had, after all, reached their destination, even though Grif would probably have preferred to drive the last final meters to shorten their distance to the shelter. He had driven the jeep down into the canyon where the pirates had hidden their compound. It was not really that impressive. The compound was indeed a quickly put-together shelter that brought up bad memories of Crash Site Bravo. "I was beginning to think you had fallen asleep behind the wheel. And that really wouldn't be a surprise after the Mongoose accident."

"Hey, you had kept me awake all night with those 'surprise' nighttime training courses. Which really stopped being a surprise after the first twelve times you woke me up. In one night!"

"Oh, quit your whining. You would have gotten the rest of the night off, had you actually finished a course."

Grif flipped him the finger the moment Sarge had his back turned on him. "You try completing hurdles in the middle of the night! Here's a tip – you can't see shit when it's fucking dark!"

"You did not even complete the course in daytime, numbnuts," Sarge reminded him flatly.

"Oh… Right."

With a final huff, Sarge armed himself with his shotgun and marched straight into the metal shack.

After being stuck with Sarge for hours, Grif took the opportunity to just lean back in his seat and exhale deeply. Well, Sarge had not shot him so far. The mission was going without a hitch. Well, the jeep had acted a bit weird just before, but it was probably just old. It had belonged to the Rebels, after all. Their stuff was pretty much just old salvage they had made usable again.

A bird shrieked somewhere and Grif could not help but flinch. The canyon had been strangely quiet so far – nothing like how Blood Gulch had been. The shelter was pretty much the only object that stood out from the nature, though Grif could spot numerous wheel tracks in the dirt. Actually, now when he focused on the signs of a battle, he could see bullet marks on the shelter's wall and on nearby rocks that had probably been used as cover.

Grif tightened his grip on the steering wheel. Kimball had said the Blue Team had chased the pirates away from here. From the looks of it, they had been in quite the hurry when they fled – and that was not a surprise, knowing they had been attacked by two Freelancers and two… somewhat good Captains.

Still, Grif could not help but tense up despite Kimball's reassurances. Perhaps it was just the quiet. He was not really used to that, after spending so many years with the Reds and Blues.

Unable to shrug the feeling off, Grif called out, "Hey, Sarge? Do you ever have the feeling that something isn't right?"

"Yes," came Sarge's voice from inside the shelter. "Right now, actually."

"Really?" Grif said, somewhat hopeful now when it looked like Simmons' anxiety was not contagious.

"Yes. It is not right that a Colonel should be doing all the heavy work while a dirtbag like you is lazying about. It's so wrong it gives you the creeps. Get in here and start lifting!"

Grif sighed but decided he could just as well get it over with. The sooner they had placed the crates in the back of the jeep, the sooner they could get the fuck out of here. "Alright, I'm coming, I'm coming!"

He jumped out of jeep and started dragging his feet towards the shelter. As much as this placed creeped him out, manual labor was never something to be happy about.

Grif heard a rustle somewhere to the left. He froze, turned his head to look and -

He was on the ground, lying on his back. For a brief second he thought about how blue the sky was – then he shook that foolish thought away and then wondered what the hell he was doing down here. He did not remember tripping. Tripping would require running. He was pretty sure he had not been doing that.

Right. They were at the enemy compound. That was why he was outside. Right.

A sharp jab of agony blossomed from his stomach and spread like lightning through his body. Letting out a gasp of pain, Grif tried to curl up his legs in order to protect his torso from any more blows but his body settled with a weird frantic jolt before going limp. He figured it had to be Sarge punishing him for falling over like a clumsy drunkard (seriously, how had he ended up on the ground again?) but his eyes were still shut tight 'cause Jesus fucking Christ it hurt. Sarge really put some effort into this kick, geez.

Grif had opened his mouth to tell Sarge to knock it off when someone placed a foot on his helmet and then moved the limb so his head was forced into a position where he was looking straight upwards. Grif opened his eyes. No blue sky this time. Just the dark helmet with red trims and menacing gray visor that belonged to one of the pirates.

Oh. Fucking. Shit.

The pirate chuckled as Grif tried to reach for his rifle that he could not get his fucking eyes on. He realized he had to defend himself but his brain was still currently processing the task of getting himself off the ground which really wasn't going that well. Grif's fingers dug into the dirt as he searched for his weapon, but before he could even catch a sight of it, the pirate kicked him again, aiming for the helmet this time.

Grif's head was painfully forced in the other direction, the right side of his helmet slamming against the ground. For a short blissful moment, Grif's brain only registered the newly made crack in his visor that stretched out from the left corner like a cobweb. Then came the pain, like a tank had just crushed his head. And Grif was kinda an expert when it came to things like that.

"Fucking sim trooper," the pirate growled somewhere above him. Right, the enemy was still there. He should acknowledge that to come up with a plan or something. But Grif's brain seemed unable to go from 'holy fucking crap' to an actual practical response to the problem and he just lay on the ground, dry lips refusing to let any words out. He should probably try to kick the dickhead, as weak as the attack would be, just to go down fighting. A little taste of his own medicine. Something. Instead of just playing dead like an idiot. "You think you can just roll in here, you cocky asshole, and steal our payment? 'cause it's you who's gonna pay now."

A shadow pressed against the crack in his visor and it took a second before Grif realized it was the barrel of a gun. Well, shit.

Grif really tried to come up with a smart remark, 'cause damnit all, he was going to die like he lived – he could at least have that honor. But his tongue felt weirdly swollen, unable to form the words his brain was still trying to come up with.

Then the gunshot sounded, and Grif was winching for fully five seconds before he realized it had not been the pirate who had fired a weapon. That should be pretty obvious since, you know, Grif was still alive.

Grif blinked and managed to turn his head to the left, ignoring how his neck ached at the movement. The pirate was on the ground next to him, helmet blown into a mess, and then Grif saw red when Sarge's boots appeared in front of the body.

"Ya think ya have the time to nap, dirtbag? Get up here before I snap out of it and finish the job myself. Adding a menacing yet well-timed one-liner, of course, to capture the moment."

"Give a man a break, Sarge," Grif managed to croak. Even though this time – and wasn't that just fucking terrifying – he was pretty content with following orders. Getting up was in fact better than being dead.

Not that it made the task any easier.

Taking in a deep breath, he tried to gather up the strength to move his stiff muscles. He was trying to push himself off the ground when he realized his right arm was cradling his torso.

When he lifted it in order to use the limb, he noticed how his hand was shaking.

Then he saw noticed how red the palm was. He probably should have seen that first. Should have been a bit more obvious.

"Holy fucking shit."

* * *

A/N: First of all, fun fact time (for Simmons' sake!): According to the "Red vs. Blue Ultimate Fan Guide" Jensen did, in fact, win the 17'th season of Chorus Idol. Not that I ever doubted her. Also, the color burgundy is, I quote from the internet where I had to look it up: "a shade of pinkish brown". I laughed – the correct term should be 'light-ish red-ish brown'. And finally, the VDO 1x85mm screwdriver is completely made up. I apologize if I have offended any screwdriver specialist. I do, however, imagine the VDO 1x85mm screwdriver to be very shiny and valuable.

I trust you all to know the meaning of Hola and Sí. I wish I had a reason to excuse my Spanish but I don't. Studied for three years. It was my main class. I got top grades. Still, I apologize beforehand to any Spanish-speaking readers for the many mistakes.

I have been so excited to get this chapter out. This was originally meant to be a long one-shot focusing on Grif and Sarge, but then the longness turned out longer than expected, I added humor to the angst (that will come) because my brain was haunted by Donut's lines, and thus I decided to let all the Reds shine. I have big plan for Lopez. In fact, I have big plans for all of them. I hope you stick around to see what happens.

Due to my other stories and life in university, I'm afraid updates might be a bit slow. I'll do my best.

Also, holy crap, **a super-giant heartfelt forever-grateful shout-out to NJ7009** who has been my wonderful beta. She has survived all the typos and grammar mistakes a non-native English speaker can make, plus coming up with wonderful suggestions that with no doubt has make this story a delight to read. I'll make it up to you, NJ. I can buy pudding. I owe you some serious hugs when we meet.

Red Team Feels!


	2. Not Red-y for This?

A/N: I do not own Red vs. Blue

Warning for use of terrible pun in chapter title.

 **Seeing Red ('Cause That's a Lot of Blood)  
** _Not Red-y for This?_

"Uhm, Sarge? I think we might have a little – no, scratch that, we have a huge fucking problem! And it's bleeding!" It really was. Grif had a hand on the top of the entry hole to prove that what he was saying was true.

"Arh, dagnabbit." Sarge kicked the body but his stare was aimed at Grif when he complained with an annoyed voice, "I should have known you would screw up this mission, dirtbag."

By this point, Grif should have known not to argue against Sarge. That was the one thing he should have learned from his time in the army. But one thing was to get fucking shot – another thing was to get fucking shot and then get blamed for it when it totally was not his fault. You could only take that much unfairness while dying.

As the realization slowly sunk into Grif, the desperation set in. 'cause, damn it all, he had been fucking shot and that was fucking bad and they had to fix this. Like now. Grif was not going to let himself die on a fucking cargo run. There were cooler ways to die, after all.

But desperation did, surprisingly, not sharpen his mind and he snarled at his commanding officer who was yet to offer hand or just a sympathetic gesture. "Holy fuck, Sarge, could you just forget your own fucking lunacy for a moment and help me." While Grif meant every word, it was perhaps not the smartest thing to say since this was fucking Sarge.

With a lot growl from the back of his throat, Sarge took a step forward and Grif did not believe he was on his way to extend a hand. Two seconds later they learned that insulting Sarge was apparently a very good thing to do, since a bullet embedded itself in the spot where Sarge had been standing just before.

"Fucking sniper!" Grif yelled, just in case the reality had not hit Sarge yet. That could be very possible.

But this time Sarge was sensible enough to dive two meters away to use the nearby rock as cover. Which was a good move. The bullet marks on the rock even proved that it had been used earlier in the previous battle. Good move indeed. Except for one little thing.

"Uhm, Sarge? Aren't you forgetting something?" Grif called from the ground where he was stuck because of a bullet wound. Just to clarify.

Sarge growled under his breath, but did reach out to grab Grif's foot and pull him behind cover as well. Which hurt like hell – but not as much as another bullet.

Still, by the time Grif was no longer out in the open, he had squeezed his eyes shut in pain. Being dragged over the rocky ground was not exactly the same as a massage, and the motion was definitely not appreciated by the bullet hole in his body.

He tried to control his breathing, turning it into deep breaths since he was pretty sure that Simmons had said something like that the time where one of his cyborg parts had malfunctioned, a quite painful problem, and Grif had helped him back to the base with the cyborg slumped over his shoulder.

When he finally managed to open his eyes, he could see Sarge peaking over their cover with his shotgun.

"Hey, Sarge?" he managed to get out through gritted teeth. "Just so you know – you're holding a shotgun."

"Ya think I don't know that, numbnuts?"

Half of his mind was busy keeping his breathing in check, which caused a slight pause before he was able to continue, "It's just… Sniper rifles have a really _painfully_ long range and shotguns… don't."

Sarge finally crouched down to look at him. He cocked his shotgun. "Long enough to shoot you in the face. Care to be put out of your misery?"

Grif looked at the barrel of the firearm before setting his glance on Sarge's visor. "Uh… No?"

"Are you sure? I've saved an extra shell for you."

With gritted teeth, Grif managed to push himself further up against the rock, so he was sitting more than lying on the ground. "Tempting," he spat dryly. "So what's the plan, Sarge? Kimball said this place would be empty!"

Sarge growled again but for once it was not directed at Grif. "That's what happens when you put a Blue to work. Should have known they would fail miserably."

"Isn't that usually our job?" Grif was not sure if snarky replies were just some sort of defense-mechanism that flared up in moment of near-death, but he sure as well could not stop them from leaving his mouth. This one was apparently pretty spot on since Sarge just let out a grunt as a reply. Grif's breath was stuck in his throat, but since Sarge had fallen quiet, he felt compelled to continue their conversation. "So, let's say we try not to die a horribly death, we should probably not be hanging around here. If the Blues missed one asshole, who says there can't be more?"

That earned a dismissive snort from the Colonel. "And miss the chance to fight to our death? Grif, what have I told you about wanting to run away screaming?"

Grif sighed and rolled his eyes. "Never steal Donut's job," he responded in a monotone voice, as if the words had been drilled into his brain after too many repetitions. Which they had.

"Exactly."

Grif fell quiet when he looked down at himself again. It felt sickly unreal to see the bloody armor parts but unable to actually feel the blood due to the gloves. Too be honest, it did not look that bad. A bloody entry hole, some blood around it, the bloody hand after pressing against it… So maybe a good deal of blood. But not a fountain or anything. He had seen fucked up wounds on the battle field before. The kinds that could not be fixed. This… This just needed to be patched up by Doctor Grey.

Of course he could not see how bad it looked under the armor – that thought kept making its way to Grif's brain, no matter how hard he tried to shrug it off. But he was still alive so there were limits for how bad it could be.

Still, it could not hurt to get out of the enemy's line of sight. Especially if more were hanging around. One sniper had proved to be bad enough, and Grif knew that shit would hit the fan if another one attacked them from a different direction. So Sarge wanted a fight alright, but Grif decided he was not going down with him. He made an attempt to convince them dying could be postponed to another day. "Sarge, is it possible we could - ?"

"Fine."

The reply came to sudden and unexpectedly that Grif pulled his head back in confusion. "Huh?" It was not often that Sarge would agree on a plan that involved retreating.

"We make a break for the warthog. If we manage to create a slow-motion escape, I would call this mission satisfyingly accomplished. With the loss of the requested cargo and your dignity as a Captain for completely failing your objective."

Ignoring the fact that Sarge for once had a sensible plan (with the exception of the slow-motion part – some things could only be done once), Grif had to come with the harsh news. "About that… I think the jeep might be stalled."

Sarge quickly turned his head towards him. "What?"

"I don't know!" Grif would have thrown his hands in the air, had he not been using them to try and stop the bleeding. "It made some pretty weird noises before. I was going to take a look at it but that was before I knew I was going to get fucking shot!"

"Grif!" came a growl from the back of Sarge's throat.

"I'm just saying, if we get into it and it won't move, we're pretty fucked." They were already fucked now, but it could get worse. Much worse.

Sarge growled again before crouching down next to him. "So what do you suggest, dirtbag?"

"Well, the shelter has walls and a ceiling – that sounds pretty good to me. Fucking bandages would be nice, too." Getting to the shelter meant he had to run, or at least just walk. His legs were not really a fan of that idea. They were shaking like crazy as Grif tried to stand up, pressing his back against the rock for support. After some seconds of struggling, Sarge seemed to have enough with the pathetic sight and grabbed his shoulder to pull him up harshly. Even though it was not exactly gentle, Grif appreciated the help. "So how are we going to get there? Would it kill you not to say human shield? 'cause that would kill me."

"You've already ruined your one and only purpose – to be a human shield. Nobody would shoot a man who's already bleeding to death, numbnuts," Sarge told him dryly as he peaked over their cover again. "You've expanded your meaningless existence to the point where you are too much of a waste to spend bullets on."

Grif was pretty sure that Sarge had not meant to comfort since that would be very unlike him. But just the fact that Sarge had decided not to sacrifice him in order to save himself did not feel as great as it should be as his words slowly sunk into Grif's brain.

In fact, Sarge's words had only caused a lump in the back of his throat.

He forced himself to swallow it and focus on the plan to get them out of here alive. "We need something to distract the sniper. Uh…" He looked around, trying to spot _something_ , but seriously, throwing a fucking stick probably would not get the job -

"Done," Sarge said, waving a grenade in front of Grif's face.

Grif wondered if blood loss could cause hallucinations, 'cause what the hell?! "Wait, where have you been keeping that thing? In your pocket? Have you been fucking sitting on it?!"

Sarge proudly straightened out his back, momentarily forgetting that they were hiding, before immediately slumping forward again. "They say you never feel more alive than when you're just about to die. I like to keep death close. Right behind me. In my pocket. Just where I need it to throw it at my enemies."

Grif could not help but feel dumbfounded. Sarge's logic never stopped being so breathtaking flawed. "Okay, this is the last time I'll ever drive with you!" Grif exclaimed, but then immediately regretted it since it probably was not the best choice of words given the situation. But idiotic logic be damned – the grenade was their savior. Now they just need to throw it. He doubted they could throw far enough to actually threaten the sniper, but that was not the plan. They just had to make a distraction. Still, it would be great to shove a grenade in the face of the douchebag sniper. "Aw man, where is Donut when you need him?"

"Dead or knee-deep in estrogen-smitten lollygagging," Sarge replied.

"That is… pretty on point, actually."

Sarge leaned back to prepare his throw. "Kiss your crash-dented bumpers goodbye, rustbucket."

"Sarge, I don't think he's… " Grif trailed off when he realized Sarge was not aiming at the sniper who had to be hiding on top of the canyon walls, so far above them. Instead, Sarge was turning towards something that was stuck down in the canyon with them. "Wait, are you fucking aiming at the jeep?!"

"Of course!"

" _Why_?!" Grif almost sobbed, wanting to face-palm so badly but the wound kept him doubled over.

"If I can't have my slow-motion escape, you better damn well believe I'll have my explosion!" Sarge told him sternly and brought his arm back. "Ya better prepare yourself to run, scumbag."

"Right," Grif said through pants, bracing himself. "Running. Not a fan."

"On three," Sarge warned him. "One – SURPRISE ATTACK!"

The sudden outburst was indeed a surprise and Grif almost fell over. Startled, he tried to look over his shoulder to see the explosion, but a hand on his shoulder forced him forward. As he stumbled his way towards the shelter, the grenade fulfilled its purpose and the jeep exploded loud enough for the ground to shake underneath them. Everyone's eyes flew towards it – even Grif had to fight the urge to turn his head.

While the distraction would not last for long, it did buy them the seconds to get into shelter.

Grif had always hated running, but he had just found the one thing that could make running worse (did that make him a scientist?) – a bullet in one's torso. Grif's eyes were watering, and he knew that he was slowing down and the sniper soon would be onto them again.

He was saved by Sarge giving him a shove in the back, sending the orange soldier that last meter forward, through the open door and into the shelter. Grif landed face first, the pain in his torso so intense that he almost blacked out, but appreciated the fact that he was still alive. Tough love, he guessed.

Sarge had made it as well, and slammed the door shut just before a shot rang out – hitting the metal with a clang.

"And they never expected it!" Sarge chuckled, happy with the fact that the plan had worked. He cocked his shotgun before remembered it was not exactly useful in their situation. That did not affect his mood, however. "Works every time!"

"Running fucking sucked," Grif told him, his voice muffled both from the fact that his tongue still felt swollen and because he was still face down on the ground.

Strangely, Sarge seemed to take pity on him. Grabbing his shoulder, he shifted him onto his back and rested him against the wall so he was forced into a sitting position. Then the colonel suddenly marched away, deeper into the shelter, before Grif could utter a surprised thanks.

Grif took his time to get his breathing under control again before calling out, "Hey, Sarge. Don't want to alarm you or anything, but I'm kinda bleeding out here."

"I know." Sarge was leaning over one the crates that had caused this mess to begin with. He had removed the lid and was searching through it. He must not have found what he was looking for, since he quickly moved on to the next crate. "Why do you think I am so happy, dirtbag?"

"So what are you looking for? Fucking confetti?!"

"Have you never listened to the Red Team's delegations, scumbag?" Sarge huffed, giving up on the crates and was now looking at the pirates' own belongings. "Simmons is in charge of confetti – that matter was settled a long time ago."

"Well," Grif said and inhaled sharply. "Tell him he fucking sucks at his job then." His eyes darted around the room, desperately trying not to look down at himself, and he took in their surroundings. The shelter was crap even compared to the standards of the Rebels' HQ.

The crates seemed to be the only thing of value and Grif was not even sure what they contained yet. But everything else in the room was tattered and worn and scarred from battle. There was some fabric on the floor that were supposed to be sleeping matts, and Grif took comfort in the fact that the place at least had a napping spot.

There were piles of broken armor bits in the corner of the room, along with several empty bottles that Sarge knocked over on his way to a made-do night table that had been built with bricks and pieces of wood.

With a satisfied nod of his head, he pulled his hand back that was holding on to a can of biofoam.

Grif could have fainted with relief – or perhaps it was just the loss of blood. No matter what, the can was a sigh for sore eyes. "Oh thank fucking Christ! I thought I was dying here. With you. I don't want a lame death."

Sarge stopped right in front of him, looking down at the injured soldier with a tilted head. "Just hold your horses. You have plenty of time to bleed out yet. Yep, pleeenty of time."

"Just give me it."

Sarge placed the can on the ground with a snort before walking away to crouch under one of the holes in the wall that functioned as windows. He was gripping tight onto his shotgun and Grif wondered how many times he would have to explain Sarge how the range of the weapon worked.

But that would have to be later. Right now he was occupied with the task of not dying. Which was pretty fucking hard, actually. Figuring that being dragged across the ground and then running for his life had not done wonders to the wound, Grif decided to remove his chest plague to see how bad it looked.

The problem was that his hands were shaking too much to loosen the clasps. Grif bit his lip, holding back something he was not quite sure what was, and wished the this whole fucking deal would be over with soon 'cause this was fucking bullshit and it hurt and Kimball had fucking said –

His thoughts were cut off when Sarge crouched down next to him, unclasping the plate and tore it off. It was sticky near the wound and it hurt when the armor was peeled off. "Hopeless," Sarge muttered under his breath, followed by various insults, before proceeding to pick up the biofoam and applied it to the wound.

It hurt.

A lot.

"Ow, ow, ow, fucking ow! Are you trying to kill me?!" Grif screeched, squirming, but Sarge's grip on him was unyielding, like the times he had dragged Grif outside the base for him to serve as a target cone.

"You wish," Sarge snorted. "Would have been a hell less painful. Still saved a shell for you, Grif, if you change your mind. I've heard dying from blood loss should be pretty excruciating. Blasted by shotgun is simple. Quick. It's been your fate all along. No point avoiding it." Deciding that this would have to do, Sarge retracted his hand.

"Yeah, if that's right then how come you haven't killed me yet?" Grif's voice was wavering and humiliating tears were falling from his eyes in pain, though it was slowly fading now when the treatment was done. At least his helmet hid it all.

"And spoil the fun already? Consider yourself lucky I am easily amused, dirtbag."

"Yeah," Grif said and looked down at the bloody black suit he was wearing beneath the armor. While the biofoam had stopped the bleeding, the area around the wound was still wet and sticky. "Real lucky."

* * *

When Kimball had briefly called him on the radio with the order for him to visit her office, Simmons figured he would be in trouble. They had probably heard about the catastrophe in the armory, and now he, as a responsible Captain, would have to take the blame for not keeping it under control.

Simmons rounded the hallway and swallowed deeply. Today sucked.

But Simmons realized Grif was having a worse day than him when he overheard a rather worried-looking Doctor Grey trying to teach Sarge emergency treatment through the radio channel.

The doctor was inside Kimball's office – Simmons could see that since the door had been left wide open – and both she and Kimball was leaning over the panel where Sarge's voice would appear from the speakers.

"Oh, it is very important you don't let him doze off – a small nap can turn _really_ long when you're bleeding like that. So keep him awake. A smack on the cheek usually does the trick."

"How about a good old-fashioned boot to the side?"

Doctor Grey shook her head even though Sarge was unable to see it. "Not recommendable when it's the area where the patient is shot."

"Dagnabbit."

"Hey, I'm still fucking awake!" Grif screeched over the radio, and Simmons knew him well enough to recognize the pained tone in his voice. It made him hurry into the center of the office.

"Wait, what's going on?" Simmons asked, first turning the Kimball and Grey, but after losing his patience in less than a second, he spoke to the panel, "Grif, did you get fucking shot?" "Hey, not my fault! Turned out the place wasn't fucking empty." Grif sounded somewhat pissed off, desperate and pained all at once. But it was better than if his voice was weak and fading, so Simmons guessed (well, hoped) his teammate was not dying right at the moment.

Simmons turned to look at Kimball, remembering that she had been the one to bring him here.

The General looked remorseful, briefly wringing her hands before realizing she was doing it."I've tried contacting Blue Team but… they were occupied at the moment."

"Did Carolina use her do-not-disturb-voice?" Simmons asked, feeling bad for Kimball if that had been the case. When Kimball nodded, Simmons added, "Well, shit."

Kimball turned away from him, leaning over the radio with both hands planted firmly on the panel. "Is it possible for you to leave the area on your own if you leave behind the crates?"

Simmons nodded stupidly, excited for the idea. "If you could make it to the jeep –"

"Oh, we blew that thing up," Sarge said casually, sounding like he was giving them a light shrug.

"What?! Why?!" Simmons exclaimed, hands in the air. Judging from the way Kimball and Grey were looking at him, they were thinking the same thing.

"Dramatic moments don't appear on their own, son."

Behind Simmons, Kimball visibly face-palmed.

The radio flared to life again, this time with Grif's voice. "Also, it was fucking broken to begin with. If Lopez tried to set us up, he did a damn good job."

"Or you perhaps did not understand his warnings," Simmons suggested.

"Whatever. Look, we're pinned down pretty bad here, so if you could save our asses that'd be – " Grif cut himself off to breathe in deeply. Simmons' winched on the behalf of Grif, knowing that he had to be in pain at the moment. "-That'd be just great," Grif finally finished, sounding just tired enough for Simmons to notice it.

"And by that, he means we need now volunteers for the meat shield, now when Grif has screwed up his only purpose of existing, so we can make our dramatic escape. Simmons, how do you feel about a promotion? You'll be taking over all Grif's roles in our emergency plans."

"Ehm…" At Sarge's suggestion, Simmons flinched and looked at Kimball for help. He received none.

Sarge continued, his voice a bit lower as he tried to lure Simmons into saying yes. "It's the opportunity you've been waiting for, Simmons, ripe for the taking."

"We could also head to your location and take care of the bad guys, Sarge," the maroon soldier offered carefully, earning a huff from the Colonel. "And then you can lend our jeeps for a dramatic escape."

"I vote for Simmons' idea," Grif piped in. It was unnerving to hear him agree with Simmons so quickly on a topic that did not involve the fact that Blue Team problems sucked and that Star Wars were the best sci-fi films ever. Of all time.

Sarge grumbled loudly. "Fine. But only if your jeeps are capable of a slow-motion escape."

"Yes. Yes. Whatever," Simmons said, barely aware of his own words now when the severity of the situation began to sink in.

"Grif, do you have count of how any pirates in the area?" Kimball asked, her voice stern enough to make Simmons relax a bit. It felt like the General had it under control. Of course she had, she was the General. She would fix this mess.

"Well, not fucking zero."Grif's voice was dripping with bitterness, and Simmons noticed how Kimball clenched her fists. "At least one sniper. We killed one dude- giant asshole by the way- but there are probably more fucktards hanging around." In the background, they could faintly hear a clang, and then Grif breathed in sharply. "Screw that – there _are_ more fucktards hanging around. Sarge, save your shotgun for when they gather up the courage to fucking come down here instead of assaulting our walls. Nice walls, by the way, keep up the good work."

Hearing Grif praise fucking structures made Simmons freak out. A little bit. "Okay." He wanted to run a hand through his hair, but forgot the helmet that came in the way. He breathed in and repeated the word. "Okay. I'll fetch Donut and we'll get you out of this mess."

"Wow," Grif said dryly. "I am so comforted by the thought of you two coming to our rescue. Aren't there any others? Literally? I could settle with one of the mechanics."

"Oh, shut up. This is your own fault." Simmons paused, shifting his feed, and realized that he had to ask in order to completely clarify the situation. "Wait, are you like bleeding out right now?!"

"Sarge managed to treat the wound with biofoam," Doctor Grey informed him, her joyful voice oddly soothing at the moment. "But further treatment is recommended. This will slow the bleeding – especially if he refrain from kicking him. But Captain Grif should consider himself really lucky. It could have been a lot worse."

Simmons exhaled deeply. "So it's not that bad?" he asked hopefully.

"Of course it's bad, silly! It's a bullet in the torso! That can be really lethal! But not as lethal as a bullet in the head! Had that been the case, you would have been heading out there with a hearse! Not that we have one, but you understand my point."

Grif's voice was disturbingly grim when he used the radio again. "Yeah. We get it. So hurry the fuck up, Simmons, would you?"

"You should take this." The doctor shoved a medical pack into Simmons' hands before he could even take a look at it. "Extra bio-foam and painkillers! He's going to need it! And also a book called ' _Emergency Treatment for Dummies'_ ."

"That'd be you, Simmons," Grif said dryly. "The Doctor declared it."

Simmons grumbled something about 'Cargo Trips for Dummies' but clasped the pack close to his chest.

"I called Smith to gather the other Lieutenants," Kimball told him as she turned away from the radio that had gone quiet. "I will not let you go unprepared into the area again."

"Doctor's advice!" Grey cut in. "I'd say you get going now. Blood loss is a pretty cruel time limit. And biofoam can only last so long."

"Right," Simmons said and nodded sharply. "Is there anything -?"

The radio let out static before Carolina's voice rang out in the room. They all turned to the panel in surprise. "Kimball, I need you to send me the location of the pirates' position during last week's raids. The ones we are chasing now have managed to meet up with another armed group. Something isn't right. We think it's a part of a bigger plot. You might need to send more men to our position."

"Dips on the Lieutenants!" Simmons called out over his shoulder as he hastily left the office. It did not surprise him to hear that the Blue Team was currently facing problems as well. Not that he could care about that. Red Team had enough to deal with.

The moment he was outside the office, he stood face to face with Smith, Bitters and Palomo – the latter looking at him with a tilted head. "Did you just call dibs on us?"

" _Why_?" Bitters asked, genuinely confused by Simmons' choice of help.

Smith saluted him. "General Kimball informed us that we should prepare to head out. Jensen is still located in the garage, awaiting our arrival, but we stand ready to serve."

"If 'ready' means we still have no idea of what the fuck is going on," Bitter muttered with his arms crossed.

Simmons unconsciously tightened his grip on the med pack. He began walking down the hallway, gesturing for them to follow. "Grif is shot. We need to extract him and Sarge from their current position."

His explanation caused a moment of silence from the Lieutenants. They struggled to keep up with Simmons' quick pace.

"See?" Palomo turned to Bitters and broke the silence. "I told you they wouldn't pull us out of the party if it wasn't for something important."

"Then why did you insist of bringing your cake with you?" Smith asked distastefully with a nod towards Palomo's hands.

It was first then that Simmons noticed the plate Palomo was holding. By the sight of the white-glazed cake with brightly colored sprinkles, Simmons remembered the talk there had been of a birthday party among the young soldiers.

Palomo shrugged. "For the trip."

"That won't be necessary," Smith told him. Bitters remained silent, but kept glancing at the cake from the corner of his eye.

Palomo, however, refused to throw it away. "Well, it's for Captain Grif. I'm sure he'll appreciate a good piece of cake before dying."

As a response, both Bitters and Simmons could not help but exclaim in unison, "He's not dying!" They then awkwardly pulled their head back, rather horrified that they been on the same line of thought, and spoke no more of it.

Simmons cleared his throat. "You go find some functional warthogs. I'll fetch Donut." As he walked down the hallway, they saw his hand reach up to his helmet, obviously calling the pink soldier. "Donut, I need you to find a substitute for the armory immediately! Or just shut it down – it's pretty much unusable already. Look, Grif's hurt. We have to go help him and Sarge. Yes, I need you to come!" He froze in the middle of a step, realizing his wrong choice of words. "…wait."

Then he walked out of their range of hearing, and the three Lieutenants continued on their own down to the garage.

Palomo was walking so eagerly that sprinkles fell off the cake. "I told Katie she wasn't going to miss anything today! I'm a fucking oracle!"

" _You_ 're still going to miss out on the karaoke bar," Bitters said, words dripping with annoyance as if Palomo had been talking about that thing for hours. Which he had.

"Aw man. I was going to use Captain Tucker's advice and hit on the girls who are crying after they have been torn to pieces by their aggressive fellow women after they've delivered a mediocre performance. It's a jungle out there but I can handle the claws!" That only earned him awkward flinching, but when Tucker was your idol, stuff like this was bound to happen. Palomo, still unsatisfied with the fact that he was missing out on karaoke, asked, "Hey, how long do you think it will take for somebody to be saved?"

"A hell of a lot quicker if you shut your mouth," Bitters barked at him before slamming the door to the garage open. By the force he used upon doing so, it was clear that he was stressed out at the moment.

Jensen was waiting for them near the entrance. Only knowing the little information Smith had given her, she was naturally curious to hear what was going on. "Hey, guys! Did you find out what the fuss is about?"

"Captain Grif has sustained injuries on the field. We are to head out there with Captain Simmons and Donut to provide covering fire while they assist Captain Grif and Colonel Sarge out of the enemies' territory," Smith explained with a voice just a bit too even to talk about such bad news.

Jensen gasped. "That sounds bad."

"Well, they rely on us to help, so it can't be that bad, right?" Palomo said, and they all had to agree that he had a fair point.

"We need three functional vehicles."

"Well, Lopez and I – " Jensen gestured towards the robot who was trying to hide from the now four headaches by crawling under a broken Monogoose with a tool in his hand. "-just fixed these three."

"That's convenient!" Palomo said out loud, because it truly was. "Sho-"

"Shotgun." Bitters cut him off, swinging himself into the driver's seat of the nearest warthog.

"Aw." Palomo turned to the other vehicle, trying to snatch his other opportunity, only to see that Jensen was already behind the wheel. "Really?"

"You can have the machine gun, Palomo," she told him as a comfort.

Palomo took a moment to consider, eying the weapon, before deciding, "Okay, that's cool enough. Let's go."

After placing his cake in the back of the jeep, he jumped onto the mount, holding tight onto it as Jensen in her eagerness immediately hit the gas. She would have been speeding out of the garage, had it not been for one small accident.

Only a few meters away from where the warthog had been parked, the vehicle jumped as if they had just run over a speed bump.

"¿Me estás tomando el pelo? [Are you kidding me?]

As Lopez had reached out from under the car to grab the VDO 1x85mm screwdriver, Jensen had, in her hurry, run the limb over. The dismembered arm was now twisting around itself a meter away from the rest of Lopez.

"Oh, Lopez!" As she realized what had happened, Jensen promptly drove into another jeep in pure shock (causing Palomo to let out a disappointed "Aw" as he accidently stepped in his cake) but barely registered that as she jumped out of the warthog to get to the robot's side. "Are you okay?"

Lopez was holding his own arm, trying to attach it to his shoulder, but he could just as well have been sitting with a broken toy.

Jensen reached out to grab the limb. "I think some wires may have snapped." The arm was still moving, trying to slap her in the face, but Jensen somehow managed to keep it at a safe distance without realizing it was deliberately trying to harm her. "But it looks like it hasn't taken much damage."

Had they not all been wearing helmets, it would have been obvious that the Lieutenants' expression were priceless.

Smith was looking at Jensen with a raised eyebrow, wondering how many accidents one person could be the cause of while still being allowed to drive. Palomo looked like a spooked lady from a soap opera as he stared at the still moving arm, his mouth so round that it could be a second before it let out either a scream or vomit. Bitters tried to keep a neutral expression, but failed by squinting his eyes in annoyance. It was clear that he did not have the time for this – after all, it was his Captain who was bleeding out. And the worried frown that he could not hide was definitely not due to Lopez' situation.

"Oh, that is so weird," Palomo finally croaked out, unable to force his eyes away from the limb that looked like it had been taken out from some bizarre sort of sci-fi zombie film.

"I can fix it," Jensen promised, stopping herself from hugging the arm. "I just need the proper tools and- "

"Jensen, kind of a rush here," Bitters said through gritted teeth as he drummed his fingers against the steering wheel.

Jensen looked absolutely torn, glancing back between the scowling Lopez and her comrades in the warthogs. It was clear that she wanted to fix the mess she had created, even with the others waiting for her and Lopez trying to snatch his own arm out of her grasp. "But…"

She was cut off by a panting Matthews who stumbled the last steps before placing himself in the middle of the group. "I managed to catch up with you guys," he wheezed, leaning against one of the warthogs for support.

"Private Matthews, I don't think you're supposed to be down there," Smith told him, jumping down from Bitters' warthog to take a look of the situation on first-hand.

"Yeah," Palomo called out. "Did Feierstein ignore – I mean, forget to invite you, too?" As he realized he was in the presence of Jensen, he quickly changed his words in order to avoid hurting her feelings. The mechanic did not seem to have heard it in the first place as she was busy with turning Lopez' arm upside down in order to get a good view of the wires.

"I heard about Captain Grif!" Matthews explained – and by doing so, avoiding Palomo's question entirely.

"And how did you hear that?" Smith asked, a bit impressed by how quickly the Private had caught up on a non-announced mission.

"Well, I was checking up on my deliverance of my new helmet at the armory-"

"-Wait, why are you getting new helmet?" Palomo asked, jealousy tinting his voice.

Matthews suddenly hesitated, shifting his feet. When he finally revealed the reason, his voice was low as if he was ashamed. Which he probably was. "I wanted cameras like you guys."

Bitters sighed loudly, looking like he was either about to drive out of the garage on his own if the others kept taking so long or simply just slam his head against the wheel in annoyance.

Matthews cleared his throat and continued, "But I overheard Captain Simmons telling Donut about it. He sounded really freaked out. So I came here."

"Did the Captain ask for your participation?" Smith asked carefully. If Kimball had only wanted to four of them on this mission, he did not want to mess it up. But on the other hand, the mission had not even truly begun yet, and the Lieutenants had already made a mess.

"Oh, I volunteered! But he might not have heard me - he was yelling quite loudly at Donut."

Smith looked over his shoulder to get Bitters' thoughts on this, but the orange-stripped soldier only shrugged. With a hand on the lower part of his helmet, Smith hesitated, "I'm not sure…"

"He's my Captain," Matthews said sternly. He straightened out his back, lifted his chin and tightened his grip on his rifle. "And I promised I would be there when he needed me."

"We do have an empty spot if I stay here to fix Lopez," Jensen offered carefully. The arm was currently trying to bash a hole in her chest plague, but she did not seem to mind.

Lopez was glaring daggers at her, but his stare was dulled by the visor and the fact that he had no actual eyes. "No necesito tu ayuda." [I do not need your help.]

Smith looked down at her. "Are you sure about this, Jensen?"

"No me dejes solo con ella." [Do not leave me alone with her.]

Jensen nodded firmly. "I want to help, but this is my mess. Again, I'm really sorry, Lopez."

"Devuélveme mi brazo." [Give me back my arm.]

"And I'm sure Matthews will be a good replacement," Jensen said, smiling to the Private who was almost unable to hold back his joy at the prospect of being allowed to come with them.

Her confirmation seemed to be the last reassurance that Smith needed. "Alright, we head out." Smith checked on the jeep Jensen had crashed, noting that she had dented the front part of the vehicle, and placed himself in the driver seat. Matthews went to take the other seat in Bitters' jeep.

The moment the Lieutenants had settled themselves in the vehicles, Simmons and Donut came running.

Bitters glared at them from his seat. "What the fuck took you so long?"

Simmons could ignore Bitters' disrespectful tone but only due to their current situation. He entered the last remaining warthog, placing the med pack in the back before getting behind the wheel. "We had to find bullets for Donut's rifle," he explained with a very dark tone that kept Bitters from asking further into it.

"Wait, shouldn't we bring Doc with us?" Donut asked as he crawled into the jeep as well.

Simmons stepped on the gas, leading the trio of warthogs out of the garage as quickly as they could. Time was of the essence now.

"Donut, Grif is injured and in need of medical treatment. Are you crazy? Of course we shouldn't bring Doc!"

* * *

A/N: I have a suspicion my new teacher is a RvB fan. He delivered the most perfect Donut-ish line ever. We complained about the book we had read was pretty dry, to which his response was: "All dry stuff can become wet if you add passion." I about died.

Originally the explosion of the jeep happened in a whole other way. In the first version, it was actually Grif's idea. But then I really wanted to bring in a grenade, but I thought it was too unlikely. They wouldn't just be carrying around grenades. Then I remembered we were dealing with fucking Sarge and of course I could have him carrying around a grenade. God, I love these boys!

I also was not planning to let the LT's come along, but then I decided that I love the too much and suddenly they were to play a large role as well!

Thank you for your support :D


	3. A 'Hole' Lot of Troubles

A/N: I do not own Red vs. Blue

I can't stop myself. Another pun-title.

 **Seeing Red ('Cause That's a Lot of Blood)  
** _A 'Hole' Lot of Troubles_

"Eh." Donut watched with interest how Simmons nervously made whimpering sounds about nothing in particular. The maroon soldier seemed strangely stressed at the moment, gripping the steering wheel tight, but occasionally let go of it to push some buttons on the warthog's panel, only then to pull his hand back as if he had accidently activated a bomb. Maybe there was a reason why Grif was usually the driver.

"Are we allowed to drive this fast?" Simmons asked, looking at the speedometer and then glanced at his own foot on the pedal, as if it would betray him should he turn his back to it.

Donut leaned back in his seat – he had grown so used to be sitting in Shotgun's lap that the plenty amount of space now was something he had to grow used to. "I doubt Chorus has proper etiquette when it comes to rules of the road. And besides, you were the one who _yelled_ at me to, and I quote, 'hurry the fuck up', which I think it's the real lack of proper etiquette here. How rude, Simmons. You could have asked nicely."

Simmons would have glared daggers at him, had he dared to remove his eyes from the road. "This is an emergency, Donut!"

"Then why are you worried about going too fast?" He leaned slightly out of the seat to wave at the Warthogs driving slightly behind them. Smith briefly removed a hand from the wheel to salute him, Palomo waved so energetically that he almost lost his grip on the shotgun, Bitters did not even spare him a glance, not even when Matthews nudged his shoulder to get him to greet the Captain as well.

Simmons let out another 'eep' when one of the wheels hit a small rock, causing the jeep to jump slightly. "I don't want to end up in a ditch! That's the last thing Grif needs right now."

"Actually," Donut said, a finger on the chin area of his helmet, "the last thing Grif needs is another bullet inside of him. Oooh, or a grenade! Those things kick like a horse, I tell you!"

"I believe you," Simmons replied rather dryly. Strange (and illogical) as it was, Donut was the best source when it came to describing near-death encounters. It was almost sad.

"Much worse than the gunshot. I hardly even felt that thing!"

"That's because you were dying, Donut!" Simmons snapped. This was one of the painfully obvious facts that his friend should be aware of. "You went into armor-lock!"

"That's what I'm saying! It didn't hurt until Doc started fiddling with my hole!"

Simmons would have slammed his head against the steering wheel but he was pretty sure that would mean a messy demise by warthog crash. "Oh god."

"Not that good old Donut can't manage rough handling."

" _Donut_!" It was growing increasingly hard to focus on driving, especially when Simmons' sanity was slowly seeping out of his brain.

"But it was agonizing!" Donut continued, seemingly unaware of Simmons' mental breakdown. "I don't understand how one can even survive such a procedure! The pain alone."

Simmons was very close to sobbing. He wondered just why he had brought along Donut, and excused his choice by reminding himself that this was in fact a Red Team problem and that all members should be present and it could not hurt to bring another soldier. "Please stop."

Donut did not stop. In fact, Donut used arm motions to empathize. "He went in deep! You should have seen how big it was!"

"For the love of-"

Simmons was cut off, but thankfully it was not by his pink comrade. Both soldiers looked down at the Warthog's panel that informed them that someone was contacting them through the jeep's radio.

"Uhm, sirs?" It was Smith's deep voice that spoke to them. "Is this conversation supposed to be broadcasted on our shared channel? We don't want to intrude on classified information."

Before any of them could answer, the radio showed a bit of static before Bitters' voice joined in. "What he is really saying is that we don't _want_ to listen to this."

"Oh, for fuck's sake." Simmons immediately pressed a button and the radio died out. That meant he could yell at Donut in privacy. "Donut, stop talking about your hole! I don't want to know what Doc did to it!"

Donut crossed his arms, obviously a bit offended with his friend's tone. "But honestly, Simmons, I am telling you this for your own sake!"

Simmons almost swallowed his tongue which kept him from screaming as the jeep swayed dangerously. "How?! _Why_?!"

"Because I turned out alright!" Donut told him sternly. "Doc used these big tweezers –" Oh. Right. _That_ was what he had been talking about. "-to get the bullet out, patched it up and made me drink a glass of orange juice – organic, of course; who would want to be poisoned just after a near-death experience? And look at me now: better than ever!"

While that was an incredible (or, with an even better adjective: illogical) story, it did not soothe Simmons' mind. Because this was Donut – Donut could not die. Donut was… Donut. "And your point is?"

"That if I survived, so can Grif." That was… actually, not such a bad point. After all, Grif had survived getting run over by a tank, getting thrown off a cliff, falling from a tower and multiple shot to the head. He might be Donut's greatest competition when it came to surviving dangerous encounters. Well, then there was Church who was the champion of dying and coming back (which had to be the same case now. According to the statistic, this would be the most likely case) but that was a whole other competition.

Donut's voice pulled him out of his thoughts. "Also, you're about to drive into a ditch."

"Holy fuck!" The maroon soldier barely managed to steer the jeep back on track, leaving him panting when he finally had it under control. There was a reason why Grif was usually the one driving this. And the only way Simmons could be an even worse driver was by panicking behind the wheel – something that was just about to happen.

"Don't worry about getting in it a ditch, Simmons," Donut told him cheerfully. At least he was trying to bring Simmons' brain on a stable level. "I'd help you! Nothing stays down when Donut gets in action. I'd get it up immediately."

* * *

"Just a minute, Lopez," Jensen said and tried to pull out a wire from the arm. The robotic arm still glitched and was trying to find a way to strangle her. When she kept a firm hold on it, looking for any weaknesses in the inner parts of the robot, it eventually gave up and instead tried to reach out for Lopez, like a son seeking the help of its father.

Said robot was about to swiftly tear the arm away from the Lieutenant when Jensen suddenly looked up at him, "I don't think simple welding will be able to fix this. Well, it probably could attach the arm itself, but the wires would still be busted."

"Dame ese." [Give me it.] he commanded her, and due to the language barrier, he had to gesture towards the limb and then back at himself to make his point clear.

The young soldier still hesitated. "I don't think that…"

Lopez finally lost his patience, grabbed the arm and tried to secure it against his shoulder, but because he only had his left hand to work with (for obvious reason) the angle was awkward and he was unable to hold any tools. He tried to stare over his shoulder to look at the mess his arm had been reduced to, and had Sarge finally installed those laser eyes he kept talking about, Lopez' glance would have been intense enough to do the whole welding process without even touching the limb.

"I can help you," Jensen said, trying again to win his trust. "I promise. I just need the proper tools. You'll be functional in no time. That is if you count a couple of hours as no time – since it actually is time, because, well, they're hours, but…" She trailed off when she noticed his unyielding glance. "I'd probably be quicker than any other mechanist down here. You should see how much time they can spend on a single vehicle. But you know all about fixing vehicles, don't you? Not that you'd be able to do that now… I need really need your arm back."

Lopez sighed mentally, but then stiffly handed her the arm that had finally gone still. "Thank you," she said as she accepted it. "Now where did I put that hammer?"

"No martillo." [No hammer.]

"It must be near my tool box."

"¡No martillo!" [No hammer!]

Jensen rose from the ground, brushed some dirt of her knees and turned her head in an attempt to try to spot her tools. When she left, Lopez followed her – she was still carrying his arm.

"¡NO MARTILLO!"[NO HAMMER!] Lopez thundered when Jensen opened her box. She briefly looked up at him, but her head was tilted in confusion. Then she looked at the hammer in her hand and said, "I think we need some more delicate tools."

"Sí," Lopez said, keeping it simple for his own sake.

"But I don't have… Oh, I have an idea!" She put down the arm that began to crawl its way towards Lopez. Putting a hand on her helmet, she made her call.

* * *

"No, Donut, I don't know if Sarge brought any orange juice on him! As far as I know, Sarge is still sure it's something you can make by beating Grif to a pulp."

When the radio began to flash again, he quickly pushed a button. "Grif?" he asked hopefully, and scolded himself for not checking up on the orange soldier by now. But he had been too busy bickering with Donut and, of course, trying to drive the Warthog straight.

"Afraid not, sir," Jensen said – that lisp could only belong to one person.

"Oh," Simmons said and frowned beneath his visor. "I thought I threw you all off the channel."

"Well, I'm not with the others." Her tone revealed that she must be feeling a little bit hurt by this going unnoticed. He would have run a hand over his face had he had not been gripping the wheel. His mind was a little bit occupied at the moment. He would have to apologize later. "I hope that's alright, sir."

"Yeah. It's fine. Uhm, I'm a little busy at the moment, Jensen."

"I know, sir. My apologies. But I have to ask if I could borrow your cyborg kit? It'll only be for a short while."

"Why do you need my kit?"

"I need some small tools."

"My tools aren't small," Simmons grumbled. It had been a pain in the ass to get the proper kit to take care of all his cyborg parts. "They're just very delicate."

"And we all know it's never the size that matters – it's how you use them!"

"Donut, shut up!" Simmons snapped before focusing on the radio again. "Yes, you can borrow it. Just don't use the whole –"

"I thought we were not allowed to say that word."

Simmons was really doing his best not to push his teammate out of the car. " _You_ are not allowed to say it. Well, actually, you're not allowed to say _hole_ whereas I just said the word _whole_ , which phonetically is the same, but-"

"Thank you very much, sir," Jensen replied quickly and then the radio became still.

Simmons stared at in wonder. "Did she just hang up on me?"

"Don't worry, Simmons – I'm sure she'll be satisfied with your tool."

"Tool _s_! Plural! I swear, you're doing this on purpose!"

* * *

Jensen lowered her hand from her helmet as she ended her radio call. She tried to smile at Lopez, though her visor blocked it. "I'm sure this'll be just what we need. I've seen Captain Simmons' prosthetics and they're _very_ advanced." She swallowed to make sure she did not choke on her spit.

Lopez walked next to her as they began to head toward her Captain's quarters. "Su trasero está hecho de una máquina de fax. Sí - muy avanzada." [His butt is made from a fax machine. Yes – very advanced.]

Jensen nodded as if the robot had agreed with her. Which he hadn't. Well, he had, but that was ironic Spanish which was one of the few things in life that Jensen had not studied. She continued, "And I've helped him before. One time in training, his leg started to give out and I had to tighten his kneecap." Somehow, she managed to make that episode sound happy.

"Puedo ver que gastamos toda la tecnología avanzada en él." [I can see we spent all the advanced technology on him.]

Jensen tilted her head, making it obvious that she was not quite sure of what he had just said. So she guessed. "Oh, I know where the kit is. It's in his room." It was a qualified guess. It just was not right. "Luckily, I know the code to his door."

"¿Por qué?" [Why?] Lopez asked, since it was a bit weird (not to mention creepy) that the Lieutenant had access to her Captain's quarters.

"Emergency meetings," she explained, catching from his tone that he had asked her a question. "Plus it's step three of the recommended strategy to avoid death by heart attack."

Lopez decided not to reply to that. He also decided that each and every person on this planet was an idiot, even if they were labelled as smart.

He made a mental note only to work in the garage when no one else was in the room. At least he had only lost his arm this time. It had been much more traumatic to lose everything else but his head.

Maybe he should just avoid everyone else forever. That seemed to be the most logical plan.

Sadly, the idiots seemed to either follow him when he disappeared, or turn him back on when he had finally reached the sweet silence from being shut down.

"Captain Simmons sounded really stressed out when I called him," Jensen suddenly decided to tell him. "Understandable, given Captain Grif's situation. But I'm sure he'll be fine, Lopez. You don't have to worry."

Even though it was obvious that she was only saying this to calm herself down, Lopez replied, "No estoy preocupado."[I'm not worried.]

"Right," she said and nodded. It seemed like she understood his word. "Because Captain Grif is sturdy." But she did not get his point.

"No. No estoy preocupado porque no me importa."[No. I am not worried because I do not care.] The robot paused, looked at his arm in her hands, cursed his life and said, "Además, 'robusto' no es la palabra correcta para describir al idiota naranja. Puede parecer positivo. 'Abultado' suena mejor." [Also, 'sturdy' is not the right word to describe the orange idiot. It might sound positive. 'Fat' sounds better.]

"I know. I hope they'll be back soon." Jensen had to lean back to keep the robotic arm from grabbing her throat. "Your arm is very lively. Do you want to hold it to calm it down?" She held it towards him like one would hand over a baby.

"Si me pides que le cante una canción de cuna, te dejaré que te haga una bofetada." [If you ask me to sing a lullaby to it, I will let it slap you.]

* * *

"Sarge," Grif whined. " _Please_ shut the fuck up." After the kick to his head, Grif had doubted his headache could grow even worse, but of course Sarge could prove him wrong. "I feel like my head is about to split in half."

"And then we would finally have scientific proof that you lack a brain. Or, if you're lucky, it's the size of a walnut. Or a hazelnut. Which one is smallest?" Sarge grunted and finally stepped away from the window. "Too many nuts – we all know that the only nut that can describe you is numbnuts."

"How about cracked nut? 'cause that's how my skull feels like at the moment!" Grif went to touch the side of helmet, but was careful not to touch his visor. It was still cracked at the left corner, and the last thing he needed right now was glass in his eyes. Fucking pirate had probably given him a concussion – at least that was what it felt like. And Sarge was not helping.

From what they could see, there were more and more pirates gathering around the shelter. Where the fuck they came from, Grif had no idea. He had not even seen the sniper to begin with.

The last half an hour, the reds had become terribly outnumbered. So far Sarge's solution had been to yell out of the window.

Grif was considering whether just bleeding out now would be the less painful solution out of this.

So when he realized that Sarge had finally lowered his voice to speak in a normal tone (the term 'normal' being relative) as he insulted Grif, he let out a sigh of relief. "Thank fucking Christ. Insult me all you want to, Sarge – like, seriously, just keep going – as long as you don't start to yel-"

"Oh, I almost forgot!" As if Sarge could read minds, he promptly stuck his head his head out of the window. Grif was surprised that he had not been shot in the face yet. "Hey, dirtbags! Ya better not dare to sneak your sorry hides down here, or we'll get you. Isn't that right, Lopez? He agrees with me – they all do! It's like a thunder of agreeing mutters down here, it almost feel crowded. Good thing we brought half of the army with us. Heh, and is that a machine gun you brought with you, Simmons? Oh, I'm sure there'll be no need for that. Even those dirtbags are smart enough to stay away. Yep. They really should not come down here, or we'll be on them like flies on a-"

"Sarge, _stop_!" Grif whined again, putting his hands on each side of his helmet, as if he could cover his ears. "There's no way that'll work! Stop tempting them! And please stop the yelling!"

"Grif, do you have no knowledge of Red Team's emergency plan when outnumbered?" Sarge turned his head to stare at him and then suddenly seemed to remember just who he was talking to. "Never mind." He peeked out of the window again. "Dirtbags! If you dare to set one foot within-"

At this point, Grif decided to try to block out the sound, but it was like knives digging into his poor head. Since he was unable to stand up and slap Sarge (which probably would not be a good idea to begin with), he decided to do something different.

When he began to call Simmons, there was a lot more static than normally, and Grif wondered if the fucktard had broken his radio. That would be just great. A bullet in his side and a head filled static. Fucktard, indeed.

After too many seconds of what sounds like a radio's death rattles, he was finally able to make out Simmons' voice. "What now?!"

As if the nerd had anything to complain about at the moment. "You know, if this was going to be my last words, you'd be a shitty audience. But if that's the case, you have to know that you suck. Now I can die in peace."

"Grif?" It seemed like Simmons finally understood that this was not a prankcall. "Are you okay?"

"Besides the bullet in my gut and Sarge's voice splitting my head open? Just fine. I love missions. Let's do them some more. What could go wrong?"

"Why is Sarge yelling at you?" Simmons asked, because of course that was the one thing he took note of. "What did you do?"

Grif glared at Sarge who was currently yelling something about a 21 gun salute to the face. "Simmons, please call Sarge and tell him to shut the fuck off before they decide to storm us or something!"

"Why is he yelling at them?"

"Red Team's emergency plan when outnumbered," Grif replied dryly and knew that he did not have to say much more.

"Oh," Simmons replied and hesitated. "Well, I won't say it's a bad plan…"

"Sarge's not on this channel, dipshit."

Simmons took at second to think about that. "Well, then I think that's a very bad idea."

"You don't say?"

"Look, how about asking him to set up a perimeter? That could distract him."

"Yeah, and what makes you think he won't just order me to do it?" Grif asked and noted how Sarge had moved on to insult the pirates' ancestors. "He'd probably just make me crawl around the shelter, letting my blood draw a circle."

"Is that you volunteering, Grif?" Sarge suddenly barked at him. While the Colonel was not on the radio, he was still able to hear every word that Grif was saying.

Grif flipped him the finger and returned his focus on Simmons. "So when are you assholes deciding to show up?"

"On our way."

"Simmons, I swear, are you behind the wheel?" Grif's voice turned into a growl as he imagined Simmons checking his rear-view mirrors before slowly, agonizingly slowly, making his way here.

"Uh, yes?"

"Get. Out."

"What?"

Grif tried to sit up more straight, and winched when the motion was definitely not painless. "You heard me. Get out of the car, and push someone else behind the wheel. I don't care who – let it be fucking Jensen! I'd rather have her show up in a beat-up jeep with only two wheels left than you showing up just in time to miss my funeral."

"Hey, I'm going way over the recommended speed limit on a rocky path. Okay, so Donut says I'm driving a bit too straight, but that's Donut." Grif could not help but grin at that comment; he could almost imagine Donut's offended 'hey!' in the background. "Just try not to let Sarge kill you both, and stay still."

"Really? You're ordering me not to move? C'mon, Simmons, you should know me well enough to know that I'm staying right where I am, even if you told me not to do so."

There was a snicker from Simmons' line. "Oh, I _know_. Just try not to mess up the biofoam."

"Wait – so you are saying this stuff don't just magically heal me?" Grif looked down at his black undershirt and even with the dark color he could still see the dried blood.

Simmons sighed loudly and deeply. "Remind me never to get injured in your presence. Have you never paid any attention to our first aid classes?"

"Uhm… Biofoam fixes stuff?"

"Biofoam is a temporary sealant," Simmons reminded him dryly, probably having memorized it from some manual they had been given and that Grif had thrown out.

"So that means?"

"Think of it as a plug."

Grif tried to do what he was told, but ended up with a pretty disturbing mental image. "Eh… I'd rather not."

"Look, everything is fine for now-"

"Define the word 'fine', Simmons."

His comrade chose to ignore that comment and continued, "Just remain relaxed – as if that would be a problem – and when the foam dissolves –"

" _When_?" Grif cut him off. " _When_?! Why you are saying 'when'? Why not 'if'? _Why_ are you saying 'when'?"

"You do know that biofoam only last a few hours before it breaks down, right?"

"Eh…"

Simmons sighed again. "You do not know that. Seriously, Grif?"

"Those classes were boring."

"And potentially life-saving, but why care about that?" Simmons snorted, trying to sound sarcastic, but ultimately failed due to how tense his voice sounded. "We'll be there before it dissolves. And Doctor Grey gave us more of the stuff, so you'll be fine."

"Wait – I have to go through the whole applying-lava-on-my-wound- process again? No thanks."

"Or you can bleed to death. Your choice."

"In that case I choose option C: nap." To be honest, that was pretty much Grif's solution to everything. But it worked. Headache? You can't hurt when you're sleeping. Boring lessons? Perfect time to nap. Being surrounded by enemies? Nap hard enough to fool them into thinking you're KIA.

"Wait, you can't go to sleep now!"

Grif frowned – and then winched. His face was still sore, and especially his nose was troubling him at the moment. "Do you know how many times I've been told those words, Simmons? Do you know how many times I've cared?"

"You can't take a nap when you are seriously injured! Even Doctor Grey told you so! Do you want Sarge to kick you?"

No, he didn't. An old-fashioned boot to the side (as Sarge would put it) was not on the top of Grif's wish list at the moment. "You guys suck. But fine. I'll nap later."

"I- _Shut up_ , Donut!" There was a pause from the other end of the radio, and then Simmons' voice returned. "Donut wants to know how you are feeling." That was a discreet way of Simmons asking how Grif was feeling. Not that Grif cared – at least Donut was still off their radio channel.

"Been better. No Oreos around here, you know. That's main issue number one."

Simmons let out this weirdly dry and choked laughter. "You should learn how to straighten your priorities."

"Is it pretty fucking cold to you, too?" Grif suddenly asked. Since Donut (ahem, Simmons) wanted to hear about his current situation, it was only fair to let them know that this place did not suit a Hawaiian. He was not even sure of the time of the year Chorus was currently stuck with. He had pretty much lost track after all their travelling (and crashing on random planets – that usually threw you a bit off).

Simmons' cyborg parts should definitely let him know of the temperature – since that ability belonged under the term 'useless stuff' which was pretty much all the stuff Sarge had installed in him. Except the parts that kept him alive, of course. But still. Fax butt. Never forget.

"Well, it's 19 degrees outside."

"Holy shit! I must be having fever then!" He was cold, but not _that_ cold.

"Celsius."

"Nerd. Speak English."

"Well, English does cover the term 'Celsius'. Had you told me to speak American, we could have discussed –"

"Is it fucking cold or not?!"

"66 Fahrenheit."

Well, shit. So perhaps it was not exactly the weather for going to the beach, but he should not be having fucking goosebumps. Grif closed his eyes and decided that today sucked.

"Uhm, maybe you should try to stay warm," Simmons suggested from inside his helmet when Grif had stayed quiet for too long. His friend's voice seemed extremely loud in his ear.

"Yeah? What do you want me to do? Ask Sarge for a blanket? If I complain about being cold, he'd probably fetch a flamethrower to melt my face off."

Speaking of Sarge, the shelter had been oddly silent for a while. Not that Grif was complaining – he liked the silence. But silence also meant that Sarge was planning something, which was not always the best thing.

Grif lifted his head – an action that required a good deal of effort now when he had actually become comfortable leaning against the wall – and tried to spot the Colonel. It would normally be an easy task, but it took a while before he noticed the Red armored soldier digging through some boxes in the back of the furthest corner of the room.

"Huh," he muttered unconsciously. He considered asking Sarge what the fuck he was doing, but realized it would take too much effort. He was too tired.

"What?" Simmons asked, as the word did not go unnoticed by him.

"Nothing." When Grif really focused on the sound, he could hear Sarge muttering thing to himself. When he focused on something else, listening too hard, he could imagine the pirates slowly creeping closer. But that was a foolish thought. It was much better to fool himself into believing that he could hear the sound of his friends' jeep halting just outside. Then he could go home and take a fucking nap that nobody could complain about because he had freaking earned a break.

Also, now he had some dirt whenever the Blues would insult him. They had screwed up their job. Even the Freelancers. Couldn't handle some simple bandits. Tsk.

"Hey, Simmons?" Grif asked and opened his eyes.

"Yeah?"

"You do remember you promised to save my dinner for me, right? When I get back, and I don't see five perfectly warm tacos waiting me, I'm gonna be pissed. I'm still gonna need them, asshole."

Somewhere, on his way towards them, Simmons snorted dryly.

* * *

A/N: Lorte-møg-nedern-for helvede også- (string of Danish curse words). SO SORRY for the wait. I guess my excuse is that I accidently focused on some of my other stories. And I may have begun a new story that will soon be out. And that I am hopeless.

I want to see how many pun-titles I can make in this story. It gives me purpose in life.

Also, why is it -8 degrees (yes, Celsius, Grif!) and snow everywhere when I go to school? I mean, cold and snow is fine, but it's freaking November. It's not even winter yet. My Viking blood is supposed to keep me warm, but if my updates are slow, it's probably because I've been turned into a chunk of ice. Also, snowball fights in November?! How?! I wasn't prepared. *sobs* I wasn't prepared at all.

Thank you so much for all your support!

Next up – new Grimmons story.


	4. Getting All Misty-Eyed

A/N: I do not own Red vs. Blue

 **Seeing Red ('Cause That's a Lot of Blood)  
** _Getting All Misty-Eyed_

Grif had come up with a complicated plan. Since he had all the right in the world to stay where he was (cough, bullet in the gut, cough. Just in case anyone, cough, Sarge, cough, had forgotten.), he was going to let the others do the work. That meant Grif had to wait. And waiting meant that Grif could just as well make himself comfortable.

That was a bit more difficult than expected. Grif was a master of being able to zone out anywhere, in any situation, but a wound in the torso and a skull-splitting headache were making it quite hard to just close his eyes and say fuck it.

But that was his plan. Grif decided to think about the tacos that were waiting for him when he would come back to the HQ, and definitely not to think about the wound – the fucking bleeding bullet wound – and all the Biofoam – or the plug, as Simmons would describe it, and that was still an ugly picture – and how fucked the situation was in general.

It somehow worked. After hanging up on Simmons so he could give his head some rest, Sarge had thankfully given up on the yelling strategy and had gone back to working in his corner. Grif had not yet dared to ask him just what he was doing, and since he was trying to get rid of his headache, not get a new one, he was not planning to ask that question any time soon.

Following Simmons' old advice, Grif breathed in and out through his nose until the pain dulled to the point where it became tolerable. What a shame. Or not. He was torn between being glad to have the pain gone while really wanting to prove Simmons wrong, since it never hurt to mess with the nerd's logic.

The problem was that the more Grif ignored the pain in his torso and head, the more he became aware of his throbbing nose. From the moment his brain acknowledge the soreness, it suddenly felt like it had been lit on fire, and Grif realized that maybe the kick to the head had done more damage than he had thought at first.

Taking off his helmet, he gingerly reached up to touch his nose. Meeting the skin below the nostrils, he felt dried blood and cringed. Had the bastard managed to break his nose as well? As if shooting a guy was not enough. At least Sarge had taught the pirate a lesson, so Grif did not have to worry about taking revenge for his damaged limbs. That would have been too much work anyway.

Grif recalled how people in films sometimes managed to put their nose back in place, but Grif quickly decided he was not that type of guy. Maybe the nose was not even broken. It could just be sore. And if it was broken, then it would just be another thing Doctor Grey could keep herself busy with.

At least, he hoped he would be assigned Doctor Grey. He would not let Doc come anywhere near him, especially not now when O'Malley was lurking around in the corners if his mind. If Grif was going to die, it would be to the hand of a private, not the hand of an insane medic.

Not that he was going to die or anything. Because that would suck. And since Grif did not do feelings, he would not even leave a tear-jerking epic monologue as a goodbye-speech. Ain't that a bitch.

The Blues would probably not even notice Grif's absence in the beginning. They had so much to deal with. Fucking Blue Team problems. Simmons would notice, and Donut would too – fuck, Donut would probably be crying like a baby and offer to arrange the flowers on Grif's gravestone to make sure they got the colors right. Lopez would erase the memory of him. Sarge would definitely notice, and he would definitely not cry, but then he would have a reason to create a retaliate attack that would probably get the rest of Red Team killed.

So Grif was definitely not going to die. It would fuck everything up. Plus, dying sucked.

Sucking on his finger to make it wet, Grif tried to rub the area between his mouth and nose as gently as possible, slowly cleaning away the dried blood. It probably just created more of a smeared mess, but it would have to do.

The sound of metal scraping each other caused Grif to jerk up his head. For a moment he feared the pirates had decided to breach the shelter, but he quickly realized that it was Sarge was currently trying to pull their walls apart. "What the fuck?"

Sarge did not reply, probably because Grif had asked the question to himself in a low voice. He tried to straighten out his back in order to get a better view, but he could only see a Sarge crouching near the end of the shelter, apparently trying to make a hole in the wall.

Grif almost did not ask.

But then Sarge readjusted his shotgun, came down on his knees and began to push himself through the hole.

Grif was now considering whether Sarge was trying to ditch him or if the red soldier was trying to commit suicide, and then he decided that both options were pretty bad. "Leaving so soon? Party is just 'bout to start."

"Without the confetti?" the red leader huffed, pausing in the middle of a motion so he remained inside the shelter.

"Hey, file that complain to Simmons. And ask him what the fuck is taking them so long when you're at it."

"And steal your job? Complaining is the only thing you're still able to do. Unfortunately."

Grif was trying to find a comfortable position again, rubbing his back against the wall, when he suddenly remembered how Simmons had warned him against messing up the Biofoam. He froze, deciding just to stay where he was, which really sucked since a spot below his shoulder blade really itched. "Are you telling me to shut up?"

"No."

Well, that was surprising. "Huh?"

"I'm telling you to go back and forth in front of the window, making your head look like one of those little shooting ducks. Already got the color right –"

"-I'm orange, not yellow!"

"-now try with some quacks. Or just act normally. They'll know to shoot you soon enough." Then he crouched again, resuming his escape from the shelter.

"Where the fuck are you going?!"

"Interrupting an ambush! Haven't you noticed the lack of bullets slamming against the wall?"

Now when he mentioned, Grif realized it had been some time since the pirates had tried to shoot through the shelter. In the beginning they had tried to massacre it, causing some parts of the walls to be slightly dented. "Maybe they just realized wasting ammo is bad idea."

"Our enemies are by far smarter than that! Listen to the silence, dirtbag. There's a party going on out there, and I just invited myself and my shotgun." With that, he pushed himself out through the hole, leaving Grif behind.

The orange soldier widened his eyes behind the visor. So he had been right after all: Sarge was trying to commit suicide. Well, shit. "Wait, Sarge!" He groaned, remembered moving was not an option. Running out of options, he tried to throw his own helmet after his idiotic leader. But his aim had never been the best, and it all ended with his helmet landing a meter away from the wall before rolling into the darkness of a corner.

Letting his head fall back against the wall, Grif just hoped Sarge would be smart enough to stay behind the shelter, so he could go unnoticed by the snipers that were focusing on the one actual entrance. It was a small hope, but Sarge seemed to have a plan. Which was not always a good thing.

Grif just really did not hope Sarge needed that distraction, because there was no fucking way Grif would stand up – especially not to play a fucking shooting duck.

* * *

"It's not like we're _that_ unlucky," Donut claimed as they continued to drive. They were getting closer and closer, as Simmons kept reminding himself, and so far they had actually managed to stay away from any ditches.

So there had been a few accidents – at some point Palomo had fired his machine gun at some rock he claimed looked like an enemy's vehicle (Simmons believed the Lieutenant had simply grown bored, but the shot meant wasted bullets no matter what) and when Matthews had said something particularly annoying (Simmons was still keeping the young soldiers off the jeep's channel, mainly for his own sanity's sake) Bitters had tried to push him out of the car.

Not that Simmons could not understand stand him – at the moment, he was fighting the urge to use the same method to get rid of the pink solider next to him.

"Are you comparing us to Blue Team? Because that would be an unrealistic standard," Simmons huffed.

"Well, I would say 'tragic' fits better than 'unlucky'," Donut mused. "Their backstories are the source of so much drama that they outshine my soap-operas! So entertaining – and I'm not an easy man to please, Simmons."

"Great. Blue Team sucks – then that matter is settled. Can we be quiet now?"

Donut was not a fan of the quiet game. "Not if you want to talk about it."

"Talk about _what_?"

"Your traumatic experiences," Donut said to clarify, tilting his head much like Doctor Grey when she had found an interesting subject. The comparison was horrifying.

They could not be that far away now. As in, _seriously_ , they had to be there soon. Simmons had already spent all his patience when it came to Donut. " _What_?! Donut, for the last fucking time, I'm not talking about my father!"

"Oh, that's not what I meant. I know the moment when you have to bring up your daddy, and this is not it."

"We will never be having that moment, Donut!"

The pink soldier seemed to be sulking. "Well, I say opening up about your feelings can never harm the team's dynamic, and I know what is troubling you at the moment."

"Could it possibly be the fact that Sarge and Grif could be dying in this exact moment while you are trying to start another of your so-called _Donut's Feeling Hour_?!" Simmons snapped at him, his voice almost breaking in the end from pure frustration.

"The hour where you let me feel you," Donut ended for him, nodding in excitement. He seemed deaf to Simmons' anger. "So, Simmons, I think it is about time you let go of your guilt."

"Donut, I don't know what you are talking about!" he shrieked. "So stop talking!"

"You don't have to hide it anymore, Simmons. I see the pattern."

Simmons pushed the speeder to the limit, surprising himself. It turned out that anger was a stronger emotion than anxiety. "You usually see things that we don't. Just like we hear the things that you don't. None of these things are good habits!"

"It's not that surprising that you've finally snapped."

" _Snapped_?" Simmons asked, frowning. While he was aware that he may be a bit more anxious than his teammates and that he may have suffered from more panic attacks than most, he knew that he had not fully snapped yet. Because when Simmons finally snapped, it would be ugly. This was definitely not a snapped Simmons.

Donut went on undisturbed. "With all the things you've seen, Simmons…" He shook his head in sympathy. "I pity you. I mean, you were there when my head blew up, when Sarge got shot in the head, when Grif was run over by a tank, then Wash shot me and Lopez and now this. Wow, when you think about it, you really seem like a bad luck charm."

Well, when you put it like that… Simmons did not answer but settled with gripping the steering wheel tighter. Donut was always saying stupid stuff.

"But then again: Blue Team does have the highest death count," Donut continued. "So I guess they win."

"Just how is that a win, Donut?!"

The pink soldier fell quiet for a moment (thank god!), thinking about Simmons' words. When he opened his mouth again, he sounded remorseful. "Well, I suppose that was kind of rude, seeing how Church is gone."

"Yeah," Simmons said, truly agreeing with him. "Or, you know, the fact that you turned dying into a competition."

"I think Church will come back," Donut suddenly said. His voice was very slow and very stern, and it was somewhat comforting. "He always does. And I think Grif will be alright." Donut had always been optimistic, and Simmons wondered if he should start to appreciate that trait more. Not that he would ever say it out loud – Donut would love such praise way too much.

Simmons was pulled out of his thoughts when Donut continued, "If I survived, so can they. Then again, we all know that good old Donut is always hard –" He paused, because of course he did, "-as a stone when it comes to bullets and grenades. Bring it on, world, bring it on!"

For a small moment, Simmons allowed himself to smile. Of course his helmet hid it, so there was no actual reason to be worried about showing his expression. Still, Donut's word had somehow helped. Of course it had also brought along some awkward images, but that was only to be expected.

"We shouldn't be that far away now," Simmons said, looking at the map they had been given. "Only around half an hour."

Donut reached behind his seat to fetch the med kit they had been given. "Nurse Donut is ready to serve! Such a shame I forgot my uniform."

"It really isn't," Simmons said dryly. He then lifted his hand to his helmet to activate the radios they had installed in their armor. "I'm going to tell Grif we'll be there soon."

He pushed a button and the familiar static filled the air. "Grif?" he asked, leaning back in his seat. Of course they still had the pirates to worry about, but with six men and three machine guns, they soldiers of Chorus probably had the advantage.

"Hey, fatass," Simmons tried again, unable to hold back a frown. "We're almost there, so tell Sarge to figure out which direction they seem to be hiding in."

"We'll take them from their behinds!" Donut added cheerfully, though only Simmons could hear it, since Donut was not allowed on his and Grif's shared channel. Well, there was also the fact that Grif had still not picked up the call. Which was turning into more of a worry than a fact.

"Just answer your goddamn radio, dumbass!" he sneered, hoping an insult would cause his friend to show up.

He didn't.

"Grif?"

When the orange soldier never answered, Simmons' mind filled out the blanks. Grif was unable to answer the radio.

That automatically meant that Grif was dead. Either the pirates had gotten to their teammates already, or the orange idiot had simply bled out without Sarge realizing it. Or maybe Sarge had realized it. You could never really know.

Donut had just tilted his head in worry, when Simmons finally reacted to the horrifying realization.

He promptly stepped on the brake, and the jeep halted so suddenly that the Lieutenants (and Matthews) almost crashed into them.

"What the fuck?!" Bitters exclaimed angrily as he narrowly avoided the Captains' warthog. Smith managed to steer of the off the track as well, but the sudden swaying of the jeep caused Palomo, who had probably (most definitely) trailed off into his own thoughts and he lost his grip on the machine gun.

He flew ahead of the jeep when Smith caused it to stop, landing some meters in front of the bumper. Smith was about to ask if he had survived, when Palomo's hand shot up to give him a thumbs-up. "I'm okay!"

"Simmons?" Donut asked, and that was when Simmons noticed that the pink soldier had stuck his face very close to his own, helmet tilted in worry.

"Oh my god," Simmons yelped, slightly breathless as if he was about to hyperventilate. "He's dead. They're dead. You were wrong, Donut, you were wrong and they're fucking dead!"

Donut leaned back from the maroon soldier, seemingly shocked by the sudden outburst from his friend. Realizing this was what Simmons looked like when he had snapped, he tried to put a gentle hand on his shoulder, buy it was pushed away when Simmons fell forward in defeat and leaned his head against the steering wheel. "God fucking damnit."

"We don't know for sure yet," Donut said tentatively but was unable to keep his own sniffles back. "We- we should try to call Sarge." When Simmons did not reply, Donut let him rest in his despair, and with a shaking hand, the pink soldier reached for his helmet to switch channel.

The Lieutenants were keeping a distance, sensing that something was obviously wrong, and Smith somehow managed to make Palomo stay silent.

"Sarge?" he asked out loud, sniveling. "Sarge?"

When the static turned a bit louder and uneven, Simmons lifted his head from the wheel just a tiny, barely shoving how the pause had made him hopeful for a second.

"Who is this?" a southern accent called out, and the two Red soldiers sighed in relief. "Unless this is about the missiles I ordered two weeks ago-"

"Sarge!" Donut cried out, sounding happy this time. "You're not dead! It's me – Donut!"

"Impossible!" Sarge declared sternly. "Exclaiming in surprise that the person isn't dead is a line that can only be used on Donut by anyone else but Donut. So unless the balance of the universe has been disturbed, I'd call this a prank call."

"For fuck's sake," Simmons muttered, straightening out his back and deciding to take matters in his own hands. "Sarge, it is Donut!"

He could hear a grunt that was followed by, "You do sound more like Simmons."

"Wha-? No, I mean, _it's us_! Simmons and Donut! And you're not dead!" This has to be the most painfully obvious conversation Simmons had ever been a part of. "What's going on?!"

"Oh, all the fuss is over now. Almost finished with the digging."

"What'cha digging, Sarge?" Donut asked. While Simmons was mentally asking the very same thing, his inner voice was definitely not as cheerful as Donut when it came to this question.

"The grave, of course! Couldn't leave the stinking corpse polluting the air. You have to show your first and final respect to the dead!"

Donut began to wail. Loudly. "Oh, Sarge! Why didn't you tell us! We didn't even have the chance to say goodbye!"

Simmons had become very quiet, and not even when the radio spoke again did he move.

"I doubt you could come up with anything that could have outdone my insults. Used a bit of flair, some foreign words. Lopez proves himself useful once again!"

"But, Sarge!" Donut cried, a sob between the words. "He deserved more! We could have held his hand as he-" Donut sniffed loudly, "-slipped away."

"Quit making people uncomfortable with all that touching and feeling. Ya need to man up, soldier!"

" _Man up_!" The pink soldier gasped, throwing up his hands in shock. "Sarge, how could you say such a thing? Grif does not deserve such mean words – in fact, he doesn't deserve any words. Only a moment of silence is appropriate now."

"Why are you fussin' about Grif?"

Donut, who unbeknownst to the others had closed his eyes, now tsk-ed as his prayer was disturbed. "It's called a moment of silence, Sarge – not a second. And now you made me break it as well! We'll have to start over."

The maroon armored soldier jerked, as if coming back to life, and he almost threw himself over the warthog's radio panel. "Wait, just what did you say, Sarge?"

"You too, Simmons?" Donut exclaimed, both shocked and disgusted. "I would have expected you to be the one to show Grif some respect. How petty of you."

"Is Grif dead?" Sarge asked, and the question was followed by a low growl. "If this is a prank call…"

"Wait, if Grif isn't dead, who are you burying?" Simmons asked, and by asking the question, Donut suddenly understood what was going on and he immediately stopped paying his respects.

"The enemy, of course," came Sarge's quick reply.

While the answer was somewhat comforting, it was still confusing as hell. Simmons threw up his arms. "Why are you taking the time to do that? I thought you said you were outnumbered." If Sarge was killed because of him marching straight into the fire due to some stupid plan, Simmons would be severely devastated, though not surprised.

"Indeed! And nothing scares of the enemy more than the sight of their teammate's grave. Worth the risk, I say!" There was a small huff. "And – done. Here lies The Dirtbag. Also known as Dirtbag Numero Dos, not to confuse him with Numero Greatest, which is of course Grif. A better title would also be Grey-Armored Space Pirate With a Bullet Between His Eyes, but my pen broke. Oh well."

"That would also have been rather crowded," Donut commented.

"So where's Grif?" Simmons asked, and then his frown grew even bigger. "And where are you?"

"I'd bet my mother's handgun he's lazying about in the corner where I left him. Good for nothing, and now it shows. I say we give him the chance to be useful for the first time in his life. There's always need for good organ donors." Well, that was technically true. Though Chorus had a lot of dead people, their bodies were mostly not in the perfect condition afterwards (bullets and rockets tended to do that to a person), and though the war had finally ended, the hospital was still extremely busy after the last attack. "What about the guy we talked with last week? Could use a lung or two, I'd say."

Simmons recalled the person Sarge was talking about – last week the heroes of Chorus had visited the hospital to spread cheerfulness among the still recovering soldiers. That one soldier Sarge had mentioned had even asked for a photo with his heroes. But sadly, Simmons also recalled the fate of that soldier. "Uhm, he's dead, sir."

"Oh…" Sarge fell quiet for a moment, but then spoke up again, his voice hopeful, "So you're saying he's in immediate need for new organs?"

Simmons decided he did not need to finish this discussion and changed subject, "But where are you? If you're not in the shelter then-"

"Securing the perimeter, of course. Snuck out through back way, saw a fella who was trying his luck with a sneak attack. Figured since we were already out in the back, I could just as well shoot him, heh."

So far Simmons had understood that Grif and Sarge were stuck in the canyon with the snipers waiting to shoot them if they stepped out of the door. If Sarge had used some sort of back-entrance just now, that would change the situation entirely. "Wait, is there any way you could sneak out of the canyon using that route?"

"Well, out in the back is a path and it leads to a tree and next to the tree is Dirtbag Dos, and behind him is a cliff wall. So unless you have at least five sticks of dynamite –"

He should have known things would not be that easy. Simmons let out a short sigh and replied, "I take that as a no then, sir."

"Are you deaf? I just told you to bring the dynamite!"

"No dynamite in the med kit, Sarge!" Donut said and gave the kit a smack to emphasize his point. "What a shame, I'm always ready to blow-"

Sarge, unfortunately, cut him off just then. "No dynamite? Unacceptable. How could you possibly complete a successful rescue mission without dynamite?"

"We do have three machine guns, sir," Simmons pointed out, hoping it would be enough to satisfy their leader.

"Hmm." There was a long pause where Sarge seemed to think about it. "Did you at least bring any grenades?"

Simmons decided to stop Donut from explaining how he had thigh-pockets so full that it made the crotch-area feel tight, and instead he asked, "Uhm, Sarge? Could you go check on Grif? It would get you out of the snipers' range, and, well, he didn't answer his radio and I think… It wouldn't _hurt_ to make sure that he's…"

"Simmons, what is the one thing Grif has been practicing since the first unfortunate day he stepped a foot inside Red Base?"

Taking some seconds to think about an answer, Simmons realized the question was much harder than it seemed to be. "Uhm, I don't really recall Grif practicing anything, sir."

Donut suddenly raised his hand. "Well, there was that one time when he tried to see how many Oreos he could have in his mouth. I don't know how he keeps himself from gagging – whenever I fill my mouth, I almost choke!"

There was a pause on the radio where Simmons knew Sarge was debating whether or not to reply to Donut's comment, and in the end he decided to ignore the pink soldier entirely. "To get shot! I personally put an effort into making sure he knows the feeling of a shotgun's love. Dirtbag's got his own procedure – cry like a baby, wipe off the blood, whine some more, then he gets of his sore ass before he gets another shell."

That explanation was comforting, though also sort of disturbing. "Yeah," Simmons said, as if trying to convince himself and failing. "I suppose that makes sense?"

This was not the first time Grif had been shot. Maybe the other times had not been this dire, but, hey, Grif had survived so far. Besides if Donut had survived all his deaths, Grif could do the same.

* * *

Grif realized Sarge was back when the red soldier suddenly called out, "Damn right it does." A moment after he appeared, having gone through one of the bigger holes in the wall that could be found in the deeper end of the shack. His head turned to stare at Grif, then at the helmet on the ground. He kicked it towards him. "Pick up your phone when somebody's calling, numbnuts."

"Wha-" The helmet landed in his waist, earning him another jolt of pain. Biting his tongue to keep the yelp back, Grif picked up his helmet and place it back on his head. "The fuck?"

"I almost crashed and that was your fault!" Simmons immediately screeched. "Why didn't you answer your radio?!"

Narrowing his eyes in pain (why the fuck did Simmons have to be yelling, too?), Grif exclaimed, "'cause my nose's fucking broken!"

"You idiot!" Good to know that Simmons cared.

"Like you have anything to be stressing about! You'd drive into a ditch without my help!"

Simmons had already reached the stage of panicked annoyance that meant they would be fighting like this for hours. Grif really wished he could skip that headache. Simmons shrieked again, "I'm going to kill you!"

"Then hurry up before the assholes finish the job before you get the chance. Also, why the fuck are you pissed?!"

"Because you didn't pick up your radio, you dumbass, and we thought that Sarge had buried you!"

"You really think Sarge would go through the trouble of trouble of burying me?! And you say I'm dumb!"

"Well, you're the one who-"

They were cut off by the sound of someone sniffing, immediately causing the two soldiers to fall quiet. "This is so emotional." To everyone's surprise, it wasn't Donut. It seemed like Palomo once again had found something to keep himself entertained with.

"It's weird," Bitters' voice appeared as well.

Smith decided to join the party as well, "We are not supposed to interfere-"

And Bitters cut him off, "What, you want them to continue?"

"Wait, I thought I threw you off the channel?" Simmons suddenly yelled. At least his annoyance had gone from being directed at Grif to now target the young soldiers.

"Captain Donut may have used the open channel by mistake when he attempted to contact the Colonel and-"

Grif decided he did not need to hear Smith's speech, and instead he growled into the radio, his low voice meant for Simmons, "You fucking brought the Lieutenants?!"

"Uhm…" Judging from the unsure tone in Simmons' attempt of an explanation, he had realized his own mistake.

Before Grif could yell at him (fuck the pain, this moment he needed to shout at Simmons for being so fucking stupid), a too well-known voice joined the conversation as well, making the situation even worse. "And me, sir," Matthews pointed out. He sounded proud. How sad.

The channel then fell quiet, but Grif could hear Simmons gulp on the other end.

"You're dead, Simmons," he then declared before another bullet echoed against the wall.

* * *

A/N: So I just found out that in my folder called "Fanfiction" currently has 516 documents. That's horrifying. Well, I have been writing for 6 years, but still – get a life. But I can't. Especially not now when I've fallen in love with colorful space marines.

I am so sorry for my absence. Truly. To my defense, I've posted two chapters to the new story and a really long one-shot, so I haven't been that lazy. Also, I've been spending a lot of time making Grif doodles on my tumblr. Feel very free to check it out – info on my profile.

Sad news: no Lopez and Jensen in this chapter. Good news: lots of Lopez and Jensen in the next chapter.

Thank you so much for the support! Have a nice day! Or evening, 'cause, you know, time difference.


	5. HolaHallo

A/N: I do not own Red vs. Blue

 **Seeing Red ('Cause That's a Lot of Blood)  
** _Hola/Hallo_

"And… Here!" Jensen announced proudly. She finished turning the last screw and leaned back to admire her work. "Try to flex it a bit."

The words had barely left her lips before Lopez reached out with his reattached arm, snatching the screwdriver from her, placing it in his other hand before working on a loose screw near his elbow.

"Oh, I must have missed that! Sorry!" The Lieutenant tilted her head as she looked over her work. "But it looks good! You go barely see the scrapes."

Lopez tilted his head to look at the limb and it was clear that he could see the dents and scrapes that served as an evidence of the whole car-disaster. "Sí. Parece completamente nuevo."[Yes. It looks completely new.]

"Does it feel okay? Can you twist and turn it?" Jensen asked again, concern in her voice. She put her hands near the elbow as he stretched out his arms, and she felt for any clicks that should not be there. "No sparks either," she commented, checking near the shoulder where she had done her welding job. "Do you feel any pain or discomfort?" She paused for a second after asking that, considering her question. "Did they make you capable of feeling pain? I'm curious."

"Afortunadamente no. He pasado por suficientes decapitaciones ya para perder mi amor a la vida. No deseo que se agregue ningún dolor físico a eso." [Thankfully not. I've been through enough decapitations already to lose my love to life. I do not wish any physical pain to be added to that.]

Jensen stared at him for a moment, and then the robot decided just shake his head. The young soldier understood that.

"Oh good!" she exclaimed happily. "What about the fingers? Can you spread them?"

Lopez lifted his hand, doing as instructed. He pulled his head back in surprise when a gloved hand suddenly slammed against his own.

"Oh." Jensen froze and you could almost see her blushing cheeks through the helmet. "I thought that was a high-five. Sorry."

Lopez glared at her, slowly lowering his hand.

"Everything seems fine. I can try to fasten these bolts a bit more, but if you don't feel like it is necessary… We don't want to joints too stiff. Are there any complications at all?"

"No."

Jensen was beaming. "Well, then I call this surgery a success, haha! Well, of course it's not a _real_ surgery. Doctor Grey actually asked me I wanted to be a trainee, given my, excuse my bragging, excellent results in biology but I think this better. Less blood that way."

The Robot stood up, stretching out his arms over his head. When he found none mistakes, he flexed his reattached arm. He then continued on to pull near the shoulder, and when it didn't fall off he was finally satisfied.

He looked down at Jensen who was kneeling on the ground, putting the tools back in the box. "Gracias," he finally said with a snort nod. Then, after a moment of reconsidering, he added, "Pendejo." [Dumbass.] It was only fair to remember who had run him over in the first place.

"It was my fault in the first," Jensen sighed and twirled a screw around with her finger. "While my number of car-related accidents has been decreasing greatly the last couple of months, I should have been more careful."

"O tal vez no deberías ponerte al volante." [Or maybe you should not put yourself behind the wheel.]

Jensen looked at him with an intense stare that could be felt through the visor. Her helmet was tilted to one side, as if figuring out a riddle. When she gave up her shoulders fell forward and she sighed with defeat. It was clear that she was mentally cursing herself for not memorizing a Spanish dictionary at some point during the war. "It must be so frustrating with nobody to understand you."

"Sí," Lopez replied.

"And you're forced to simplify what I am sure is a beautiful language," Jensen mused in compassion.

"Sí," Lopez replied again.

"I mean, people only seem to be communicating with you in yes or no sentences." Jensen put a finger on the chin area of her helmet as she began to fall into deep thoughts.

"Sí," Lopez agreed.

"Which actually kind of make it a monologue for themselves," the Lieutenant concluded sadly.

"Sí," Lopez sighed.

"What a shame." Jensen shook her head in sympathy. Then she froze, her head snapping upwards in frantic motion. She clasped her hands together in excitement, revealing that she had been hit by an idea. "I think I might be able to work with your speech unit. It really shouldn't be the biggest upgrade, if you would just let me look at your speech unit." Her hands were already reaching for the robot's chest, hoping to open the panel hidden behind brown metal plates.

Lopez pulled back, glaring like only a robot could glare. "No creo que estés especializado en mecánica de robots." [I do not believe you are specialized in robot mechanics.]

"I could just take a small look."

"Y tampoco el hombre que me edificó." [Then again, neither was the man who built me.]

Jensen was still staring intensely at the robot's chest. "Would it not be nice to be finally understood? I would have lost my mind by now if all my words were for vain. Not that I'm indicating that you have lost your mind or anthing."

Lopez hesitated, considering her offer. "Haría que mis insultos fueran más eficaces. Y el rosa dejaría de hacer frases para mí." [It would make my insults more effective. And the pink one would stop making up sentences for me.]

With a screwdriver in her hand, Jensen seemed ready to lunge forward, tear away the metal plates to look at what was hidden underneath. Ever since the day she had been old enough to hold a tool she had been investigating all the mechanical parts she could get her hands on.

As it had turned out, a civil war had provided more than enough opportunities to work with scrap. A lot of broken stuff, especially vehicles, which had resulted in Jensen's specialty. But as the civil war dragged out things like injuries, violence and a constant need for repairs had just become the new normal. And after a while, it was just boring.

But a sophisticated, functioning, mechanical wonder like Lopez was not something you saw every day.

"If it doesn't work, I promise to fix it! Or, well, since your speech component is technically broken by default, I guess I would have to _break it_ again in order to return to the Spanish settings. Not that I think there would be complications, but in that case breaking things is a rather easy process – of course I'm talking about breaking stuff the correct way, not simply wreck them like-" Realizing she had trailed off in her rant, Jensen bit her own tongue in order to shut up.

Lopez said nothing, apparently still considering.

Jensen tilted her head as she lisped, "So what do you say?"

"Sí."

"Great!" Jensen smiled brightly behind the visor. "Now let's turn that into a _yes_. Oh, this is all so very exciting!"

"Un procedimiento simple no debe ser emocionante." [A simple procedure should not be exciting.] Lopez said and wondered just how high the cost of freedom was.

* * *

Grif jerked back against the wall, gasping when that motion caused just a bit too much pain for his liking. The shock had caused him to drop his helmet by accident, and now it was rolling away from him. He decided it was not worth the pain to try to reach for it. "What the fuck?!"

Sarge growled before positioning himself on the other side of the window, quickly peeking out to fire his shotgun.

"Sarge, stop wasting ammo!" Grif wailed. "Wait, are they close enough to actually get hit by you?! _Shit_."

"Grif, hand over the extra ammo!"

Groaning, Grif rested his head against the wall. "For the last fucking time – don't tell me to bring extra ammo. I'm never going to bring extra ammo. Why not delegate that shit to Simmons when you know that I'm not… Holy fuck, I actually brought extra ammo!"

Immediately, the words caused Sarge to freeze, halting his shooting for a moment. He turned his head to stare at Grif in what might be wonder. "You what?"

"I brought extra ammo!" Grif almost sobbed. "I was at the armory before you fetched me, remember? And I brought it along! That's why all this shit happened! I brought extra ammo – I _never_ bring extra ammo! I fucked up the ways of the universe and now we're being punished for it!"

Sarge, satisfied that Grif for once chose to blame himself immediately, nodded. "I knew this was your fault, dirtbag."

Another shot rang out, actually missing the wall and going straight through the window this time. Luckily for Sarge it did not hit him and by instinct he crouched when the bullet went flying right next to his helmet.

"Shit," Grif said again and with shaking hands he began to search through his armor pockets. Finally he found the packages he was looking for. He placed them all in his lap but when he glanced at the specific red one he picked it up to throw it at Sarge. "Here. Shotgun shells."

Sarge grabbed it, muttered something under his breath, and that was it. He did not begin to reload.

"What – you did not even need them?!" Grif exclaimed. "Were you just randomly asking for ammo for the sake of keeping up bad routines?!"

"You need the ammo, numbnuts. Now get up here and make yourself useful."

"I _can't_!" Grif sneered, pain and desperation and exhaustion seeping into his voice 'cause this whole thing sucked. "Sarge, I'm _not_ getting up." He had meant to yell but suddenly felt too tired. So when he finished his statement he let himself fall back against the wall.

If Sarge was going to scream at him for being lazy then let him. Grif knew he had spoken the truth since his abdomen felt like it was on fucking fire while his legs refused to find the strength to actually move. He was not getting up. That was not a good thing, but it was the truth.

Sarge did not scream at him. He looked at him for a second before peeking out of the window again.

"They're gone?" Grif asked, voice revealing he did not truly believe that.

"Out of shotgun range, those cowards."

"So they're planning to rush us?"

When Sarge did not answer him but instead grumbled something under his breath, too low for Grif to heard, he knew that was indeed what the pirates were planning. He would have cursed but instead he exclaimed angrily, hand turning into a fist, "What the fuck are the others doing?!"

"I'd put my money on the fact Simmons is still recovering from the panic attack you caused," Sarge said sourly. "I told you you're a bad influence on him."

"Yeah, then what are the Blues doing? This should be their problem! Anything dangerous with shooting and injuries – that's Blue Team stuff. We only go on stupid, time-wasting, not dangerous missions!"

"I wonder what Lopez is doing," Sarge revealed, musing out loud.

"Why? Who gives a fuck about Lopez? He can't help us!"

Now when the shooting had died down, Sarge allowed himself the opportunity to kneel down and talk with Grif. "Out of all the men on my team I still count on Lopez the most."

"Thanks, Sarge," Grif spat sarcastically.

Sarge went on, not even the slightest interrupted. "And I'm fully convinced that in our time of need, he will show up just when we're about to give up hope. The enemies do not stand a chance against my mechanical wonder!"

"But Lopez is not even on the rescue team! It's just Simmons and Donut! And the Lieutenants! And, ugh, Matthews!"

"I don't know. Lopez can sense when he's needed."

"Then where the fuck was he when the jeep broke down?!"

"Heh, it sure would be nice to see what he's up to." Sarge raised his glance, as if staring at some unseen observer. "Yep, it sure would be practical if we could just magically cut to see what they were doing _right now_."

* * *

"Aaaaand…" Jensen drew out the word in excitement. When the screwdriver slipped from her hand, she cursed under her breath and then immediately raised her voice to apologize for it. "Sorry. It's just… Did you know these parts were this tiny?"

"¿No lo sabías?" [You did not know that?]

Picking up the tool she delved into his chest cavity again. "It's a good thing we borrowed Captain Simmons' tool. It makes it so much easier to disconnect the – oh, there is goes!"

The moment she stood with the electric component in her hand, a bit smaller than her palm, Lopez' body jerked and sparks suddenly flew from the open panel. But Lopez had experienced worse so he did not even utter a word.

…Mainly because he was no longer able to.

"Right, since this is your speech unit you won't be able to communicate until installed again. I'll be quick. Just some few adjustments…" The Lieutenant turned over the component in her hand, poking at it with an extremely thin screwdriver.

Lopez, without his speech unit, had nothing to say, but his visor remained fixated on her work. A few times he seemed to stop himself from reaching out and work on the part himself.

Finally, after minutes of biting her lip to focus, Jensen exclaimed, "Aha! I think it should work now!"

She turned around, facing Lopez who reluctantly uncrossed his arms. Behind the visor Jensen imitated the best Doctor Grey smile she knew. Reaching out an arm, she began to put the speech unit back in place. "Now, let's see if this works…"

Lopez twitched. Once again sparks sprung from the panel, a bit more intense this time. Jensen jerked backwards by instinct but it also helped her admire her creation, if you could call it that.

"So…" She began eagerly as she awaited her first response. Fiddling her thumbs, she asked, "Does it work?"

"Why are you speaking nonsense?" Lopez asked. In English. It even had a slight touch of a British accent. The robot spoke clearly, never missing a beat.

Jensen was just about to yell _heureka_ when she realized just what the robot had been saying. "Uhm… Does this mean it is working?"

Lopez froze, turning his head very slowly until his visor was facing Jensen's helmet. "What have you done?"

"I sense you may be experiencing some complications…" she began slowly, keeping her voice calm and even while Lopez continued to grow more and more desperate, even though his monotone voice remained the same.

"What. Have. You. Done?" he asked again, slowly and clearly. Much like Sarge when he had tried to give Lopez orders, oblivious the fact that the robot's understanding of the English language was faultless.

If that realization dawned upon Lopez he hid it well.

"Uhm…" Jensen bit her lip for a moment, processing the situation. Unconsciously, her hand reached out for the screwdriver, sensing that the tool would have to be used again soon. "I actually understand you very clearly. Your slow articulation is an unnecessary help."

" _WHAT ARE YOU SAYING, WOMAN_?!" Lopez shrieked. He was so close to a short circuit that it almost seemed like smoke was coming out from his ears.

Jensen tilted her head as she tried to find the logic behind it all. "It actually makes sense when you think about it. Before you could understand English perfectly but you were unable to communicate by that language. Now you can actually speak English but you don't understand it… Which actually makes this explanation rather useless since all this must be sounding like nonsense to you! Which is isn't – it's actually quite logical. I must have turned the speech unit upside down."

Lopez stared at her with his blank visor. After some seconds just taking in his new situation he finally spoke again, slowly and firmly, "Fix. This." Even though Jensen's explanation had been pure rambling to him, he understood the problem – he could no longer understand English even though he now seemed to be speaking it.

It was the speech unit's fault, of course. Remember, cheap does not necessarily guarantee quality. (Simmons would agree on this, using his butt's earlier fate as a fax machine as a great example of why you should not be afraid to spend money when came to certain functions.)

The Lieutenant was reaching for the chest panel again and Lopez' first instinct was to slap the hand away. He scowled at her the way only a robot could scowl – you could feel the distaste for all breathing creatures.

If Jensen felt hurt by his reaction the helmet hid it. By now she understood that all her explanation, no matter how logical it might be, would be useless. So instead she raised a hand, pointed at herself, picked up the screwdriver and pointed at the open panel. Then she gave him a thumbs-up, as a small promise that things would turn out alright.

…which, had she spoken the promise out loud, would have been empty words since she had said the same when she had run over his arm.

But Lopez had run out of options, now when he had somehow managed to lose what little joy of life he had left, so when Jensen held out a hand to make an agreement, the robot let go of his hesitation and shook it.

After all, if he was lucky enough, maybe she would short circuit him by accident and he could finally get a break.

* * *

"This should be the place," Simmons announced, comparing the coordinates they had been given with their current position. From the short descriptions he had received from Grif it all seemed to be correct: they were now looking into the opening of a canyon where Grif and Sarge would be stuck in the end of it. The sniper had been attacking from the canyon walls, but who knew if they had begun to attack more directly?

Simmons didn't know. Mainly because Grif had suddenly shut down his radio so he could not grant them any more details. The sudden end to their conversation was freaking Simmons out to be honest, but at least they had finally arrived. They could actually do something now.

Reaching for the sniper rifle in the back of the jeep, he used it as binoculars. He could feel his stomach drop when he spotted movement. A lot of it. "Shit," he muttered.

The Lieutenants were slowly crawling out of the vehicles, getting a hold of the situation as well. "Okay, so I can see at least 5 on top of the canyon, and there's definitely two down there, advancing towards the compound." While the shack itself was too far away for Simmons to see it, it was clearly the only destination for the pirates.

Putting away the sniper rifle, Simmons tried to find the logic in all this. "I don't understand. Where are all these pirates coming from? Kimball said this place had been cleared out."

"And the Blues should be out chasing their behinds right now!" Donut added. "Maybe these are the reinforcements?"

"Hmmm…" Simmons tilted his head, obviously in deep thoughts. That was a good thing too – it kept his mind from thinking about Grif's abrupt ending. "Maybe they are the same pirates. If the Blues never caught up with them, they may have managed to shake them off before returning here to finish the looting and thereby stumbling upon Grif and Sarge!"

There was so much logic in that theory that Simmons could not help but feel proud of himself. Before Donut could agree with him, he put a hand on his helmet to call one of the Blues – Tucker, more specifically, since you should never try to get answers from Caboose and he did not want to accidently make Washington and Carolina believe he was suggesting they were failing their mission by losing track of the pirates.

"Hey, Tucker, are you-"

"Dude, _not now_ , busy."

Then the radio channel was shut off and Simmons just stood there silently, shocked by the brief conversation. Tucker had definitely sounded stressed, revealing the Blues were definitely dealing with _something_ right now. So maybe they weren't the same pirates, but who really cared about that now?

"He was busy," Simmons told Donut.

The pink soldier nodded. "Maybe they have heard something back in HQ. I'll call Lopez."

Simmons was about to tell him that was a horrible idea, since no one could understand Lopez' answers anyway, but Donut was too quick. "Lopez! My amigo, have you-"

"TELL THE MAROON ONE TO CALL BACK HIS LIEUTENANT BEFORE SHE TURNS OFF MY LEGS!"

Donut froze. Trying to understand what had just happened he asked tenderly, "Hello?"

" _MORONS_!"

Letting his hand fall from his helmet, Donut frowned though no one could see his expression. He turned towards Simmons and said, "I think I may have called the wrong number."

"That's…" The maroon soldier was about to start a discussion on how their radio channels did not exactly work like phones, but then he remembered he had more important things to deal with. "Never mind. We need to help the others _now._ I just hope we're not too late," Simmons said quietly, wringing his hands.

Donut put a pink-armored had on his shoulder. "Don't you worry, Simmons, I'm never late – I always come right on time."

"So are we rushing them or what?" Bitters asked, leaning against the jeep. While trying to keep his bored façade it was clear that he along with his friend wanted to complete the mission as quickly as possible (you know, to save their friends' life but it would also be great to return to HQ and still experience the end of Feierstein's party.). Matthews was obviously the most eager of the young soldiers since he was practically jumping up and down at this point.

"No, we need to come up with a strategy. We can't just rush into the canyon with no plans-" Simmons said and was about to explain further when Donut stepped in front of him.

"It's important never to go in too deep too quickly, otherwise you might have troubles getting out again," Donut explained to the Lieutenants. Smith was nodding slowly, obviously agreeing, and Matthews looked like he was looking for some paper to write down notes. Donut looked over his shoulder to get support from the actual Captain. "Isn't that right, Simmons?"

Simmons held up his hands. "I have absolutely no comments to that statement."

"What the big issue?" Bitters asked with his arms crossed. "We have three jeeps with machine guns – I'd say they're pretty fucked."

"Well, we have to make sure we use the machine guns correctly-"

"Is there a wrong way to use a machine gun?" the Lieutenant of the Gold Team asked with a snort. Matthews looked like he might have been about to add something but Bitters brushed him off with a shoulder shake.

Simmons had dropped his jaw behind the visor. "Hasn't Grif taught you anything? Wait, of course he hasn't. What if the pirates have grenades? Or _another_ machine gun? We have to see what we're up against."

"If necessary, sir, we're all willing to form a scouting team," Smith offered.

Next to him Palomo seemed to be cringing. "Eh, that kinda depends on how sure you are about those grenades."

"No," Simmons said, seemingly first to himself, but then he raised his voice, made it firm, and faced the Lieutenants (and Matthews). "No. You four stay here. Donut and I will move along the top of the canyon, take out the snipers here while getting a view of the situation." He took some steps forward to face Smith who Simmons secretly had declared the leader of the group. "If we see things getting out of hand down in the canyon, we might need you to rush them."

Smith saluted him. "Understood, sir."

"Are we taking the jeep?" Donut asked as he began to follow Simmons.

Shaking his head, Simmons explained, "No, we're going to sneak up on them. We can't use the jeep for that."

"What a shame! Agent Double-O Donut prefers theme music when he gets into action!"

"Oh god."

* * *

A/N: I love it when Sarge breaks the fourth wall.

Aw, I'm sorry this chapter took forever! I worked on some of my others stories, then exams happened, then came a writer's block. But this story has officially been revived!

Ah, I've been waiting to show off this Lopez twist forever. I have this notebook just by my pillow, so when I wake up at night (which happens twice every night. Who needs sleep?) I can write down the ideas that I get. Anyways, my notes for this were: "English Lopez. Ria: yes." So I guess that the half-sleeping version of me was doing the whole "World: Ria no. Ria: Ria yes." It made me laugh when I read that note later.


	6. Let Me Blow You (Away)

A/N: I do not own Red vs. Blue

 **Seeing Red ('Cause That's a Lot of Blood)  
** _Let Me Blow You (Away)_

Grif was slapped in the face. Which was not a nice way to be woken up, but to be fair, it was better than when Sarge used his shotgun as an alarm clock.

The pain in his nose flared up again and he opened his eyes to glare at the red armored soldier. "Ow," he said flatly. Not that it didn't hurt – in fact, it hurt like shit, but that fact really should be obvious by now.

"You think you can nap in the middle of a battle?" Sarge huffed. "Not on my watch. You think I'd let the enemies see what disgraceful behavior you dirtbag are capable of? I am going to die with some respect."

"I don't care," Grif muttered, blinking. He did not remember drifting off. "One small nap now or the big nap later? Who cares?" He tried to straighten out his back to get a better view of what was going on. "Have you called the others?"

"I did call Donut just before. Went straight to the hold music. Some kind of quick, elevating beat. Right in the adrenalin. I would almost call it funky."

Grif stared. Then he blinked. "Uhm, Sarge, could you maybe throw me my helmet?"

The Colonel muttered something under his breath (Grif was pretty sure he heard the word "lazy") but he then kicked the equipment towards him.

Grif picked it up, tuned onto the channel he shared with Simmons, and with narrowed eyes, he asked, "Okay, what the fuck are you idiots doing and why the fuck is it taking you so long?!"

"We're- _Donut, enough with the whistling_!" Grif could actually hear Donut hum his so-called theme song in the background before Simmons told him to hush. " _Just shut up before they hear us_." Simmons cleared his throat before speaking directly to Grif again, "Yeah, uhm, things could be going better. We did find one of the snipers – now we're trying to take him by surprise."

"Wow. I mean, could have been great if you found him some hours earlier, you know, _before he fucking shot me_ , but the thought certainly counts."

"I'm doing my best, okay."

"Well, I'm doing my best not to bleed out."

" _STOP PUTTING PRESSURE ON ME_ ," Simmons hissed back. His tone revealed he was quite close to a nervous breakdown. Maybe it was best not to push him. Especially when Grif was counting on him to save his life. "Look, I really have to focus now, I have to hang up. Just… Keep your eyes peeled on the valley entrance. We saw some men advancing on the shelter."

Well, shit. "Right. Hey, Sarge, Simmons says more assholes are coming our way."

"Are they bringing any rocket launchers?" Sarge asked as he peeked out of the window.

Grif frowned. "I hope not?" he said, unsecure, before talking to the helmet again, "Hey, Simmons, do you-"

" _Oh shit_!" Simmons exclaimed, and Grif definitely heard a shot rang out in the background. "Gotta go, sorry." He hung up before Grif could ask what was happening. Probably not something good. When was actually the last time something good had happened?

Grif let the helmet fall down into his lap. "Well, he didn't say anything 'bout rocket launchers," he told Sarge as he lifted his glance. "What's your obsession with them anyway?"

"If I have to go out, I will it with a bang. No simple bullets can take me out. No, they will end me in a fiery explosion – _but_ as my mortal body perishes in the flames the burning red fire inside of me will reignite and my dying spirits creates _an even bigger explosion_ that will drag the dirtbags down with me as a go! Hah, they'll never see it coming."

It took some painfully long seconds before Grif's mind managed to process all that. He partly blamed the fact that he felt so damn exhausted, but Sarge's insanity was not making it any easier.

"So that's your suicide plan?"

"Yep."

"That's…" Grif searched for the right words. "I guess pretty noble? And did I say batshit fucking crazy? Because that's what it is."

Sarge looked like he was about to reply but when he noticed movement out of the corner of his eye, he turned his head to stare out of the window instead. Grif saw him tighten the grip on his shotgun.

This was all such bullshit. He had not even volunteered for this mission! And it was a stupid mission, not even like the one the Blues were struggling with right now. They were being fucking heroes, fighting pirates that were supposed to be there in the first place.

Not like themselves that now were fighting pirates that were supposed to be in the other end of Chorus.

And now he was going to die here, bleeding out. Not even a cool death. Sure, Sarge's version of a suicide was freaking crazy but, well, it was kind of cool.

Not like this. He was going to die for some stupid crates.

Grif's eyes sprung open. "What the fuck is in the crates?" he wondered out loud. "Is it weapons? Can we use them?"

"It's garbage," Sarge barked. He did not turn his head away from the window. That was probably not a good sign if it meant the pirates were keeping him focused.

Narrowing his eyes in stubbornness, Grif slowly began to drag himself across the floor. The movement did cause his stomach to light on fire, at least that is what it felt like, but he was only one meter away from one of the crates. The lid was even slightly opened from when Sarge had been searching for the biofoam.

Sarge was probably just disappointed 'cause it wasn't a rocket launcher. It could probably still save them, this was probably the point where everything would turn out alright. They could fight off the pirates and return home just in time for dinner.

Yeah.

Now was the time for things to turn in their favor.

* * *

"Shit!" Simmons explained and jumped behind cover. He could hear the bullets bouncing off the rock that was conveniently in the way. Donut was crouching down next to him. "I told you the theme song would give us away!"

"Well, it certainly got his adrenalin going," Donut chirped. A bullet flew above his helmet but that seemed to go unnoticed by the pink soldier.

Simmons looked at the sniper rifle in his hands. "Okay, I'm going to-" He peeked over the edge of the rock, trying to fire, but he only had a second before he had to get behind cover again in order for him to keep his head. "Why won't he stop firing?! Donut, do you think you can get him with one of your grenades?"

"Double-O Donut always gets his man!" the pink soldier replied. With the grenade in his hand, he leaned slightly backwards and he was just about to throw it when a bullet dug itself into the ground right next to his foot. "Eep!"

Both he and Simmons edged around the rock, now trying to take cover from two directions. "Another sniper?" Simmons gasped in disbelief. This one was apparently positioned on the other side of the valley, with the battlefield bellow them in the gap between them.

Simmons swore under his breath – he had never been that great with a sniper rifle and this was some serious distance.

Luckily (or, well, actually not so luckily) the other pirate stole his attention by sending a bullet his way. The two Reds crouched tighter together, hoping the rock could provide enough cover. "Well," Donut said, his crotch uncomfortable close to Simmons, "this is a tight spot."

"It's fine," Simmons tried to console himself, but his tone was just a pitch too high. "Extremely fine. We just need to-"

" _PINK ARMOR?!_ " Grif's voice suddenly thundered through both of their radios. " _AM I DYING FOR FUCKING PINK ARMOR?!_ "

"Ooh, sounds like you found my package! Is it big?!"

They could hear Grif inhale sharply but Simmons cut him off before he could begin to yell, "Wait, that is what's in the crates?"

"Pink. Fucking. Armor. Simmons, if I die, don't you ever write it on my tombstone. I'm not going to die for something that lame."

The whole absurdity of the situation almost made Simmons forget his own dangerous position. A bullet against the rock made sure to remind him of it. "Well, it explains why the crates were left unused. Not even the pirates were willing to damage their dignity enough to…" He trailed off as he realized Donut was staring at him, the gaze so intense he felt the need to stop talking now.

" _FUCKING BULLSHIT!_ " Grif whined and his tone revealed he was about to lose it completely. Well, Simmons could understand. If he was going to be sniped as well knowing this was all caused due to pink armor, it was just to add insult to injury.

"You know how Kimball agreed to let me train a squad," Donut explained, oblivious to the bullet flying past his helmet. "So we needed some qualified armor. But it all got stolen in the last pirate raid, along with rest of my equipment."

Simmons struggled to find the courage to ask, "What's… What's the rest of your equipment?"

"Do you really want to know?" Grif dryly asked from his channel.

"Explosives," Donut replied happily. "Kimball said it's my specialty. Apparantly I have the right hands in order to blow-"

"You better not be kidding me," Grif said quickly and slightly breathlessly. Simmons could hear him rummage through the box. "Jackpot. You guys still busy?"

Simmons peeked over the rock to see the first sniper try to take aim. He quickly ducked behind cover again. "Uhm… It's a work in progress."

"I'll leave you to it, then. Remember, you're the guys playing heroes so _don't fuck it up_."

"Thanks for the concern," Simmons bit at him. He gave a short nod to Donut who focused on the sniper on the other canyon wall while Simmons decided to take out the pirate closest to them.

Grif snorted loudly on the other end of the channel. "I'm the one with a hole in his stomach, Simmons."

"I had almost forgotten that."

* * *

"Bitch," Grif said before shutting off his radio. He had stuff to focus on right now. "Hey, Sarge, I have an idea."

Sarge grumbled something under his breath and did not turn away from the window.

Grif sighed, took in a deep breath, and then decided to try again. "Simmons has an idea."

"Oh." With that knowledge the plan suddenly had an 80 percent higher chance of being successful. Sarge glanced one final time out of the window, apparently staring daggers at the pirates as a warning, but the came to join Grif at the crate.

"Look," the orange armored soldier said and pulled out a grenade from beneath the armor pieces. "Bet the assholes did not even know they had a shack filled with explosives."

"You did not know that, numbnutts."

"Well, I was just supposed to pick shit up, not put fucking labels on them." Now when Sarge was here to sort out the explosives, Grif allowed himself to slid down so he was resting his back against the crate. That way he could keep an eye on the entrance, making sure the alert Sarge if the pirates came bursting through. It was quite an unnerving job, actually. Especially now when his eyelids felt so heavy.

Sarge placed a bunch of grenades on the ground and then proceeded to gather mines. Grif tried to keep his expression bored as always but it was hard to hide his astonishment when it was revealed just how much explosives they had their hands on. "Holy shit, we could turn this place into a fucking mine."

Grif watched as Sarge carefully decorated every surface near the entrance with mines. He kept the grenades on himself. While none of them had Donut's talent, it could not hurt to bring one or two of them along.

"Great," Grif breathed out. "You've rigged this place. Is this the part where we make sure we don't get caught in the explosion? 'cause I like that part. I think we should do that part now."

"Then I say you should get moving, dirtbag," Sarge replied. He had already begun to tear the metal parts away from the hole he had made in the wall earlier. While the cliffwall was still there to block their escape out of the valley, they could at least make enough distance between themselves and the explosion.

Grif tightened his grip on the top of the crate but never really found the strength to pull up the rest of his body. "Uhm… A little help?"

Sarge grunted but placed is shotgun on his back so he had both hands free. Desperately hoping that the pirates had enough manners to wait until they were ready for them (with an explosion, even, what a welcome!), Grif tried to keep his legs steady when Sarge leaned down and roughly pulled him up by the shoulder.

It did not go that well.

A second later they were both gasping – Sarge from weight he just had to deal with and Grif from the pain. The orange soldier was now halfway resting against the crate, not being able to stand without the support.

"On your feet. Unless you want to make an impression of a swiss cheese. Already got the color right."

"I'm not yellow," Grif gasped. As if the anger strengthened his limbs, he actually managed to stand with an arm around Sarge's neck. The anger also made it easier not to think of the awkwardness of the situation. "I'm fucking orange."

His feet almost cooperated with him in the beginning but then his legs just turned too heavy. Normally walking was preferred to running but even these few steps seemed to drain Grif of the little energy he usually had.

He was tired, exhausted really, and in a bad way. Grif really felt like sleeping and for the first time in his life that seemed to be a really bad idea.

He was faintly aware of Sarge shouting insults into his ear but then the world just seemed to disappear for a moment. He hardly felt himself slip out of Sarge's grasp but he did feel the sudden jerk in his body as he fell the floor.

For a moment he considered if the sniper had gotten him again; his torso was on fire. His hand automatically tried to cover the area, and at some point Grif noticed the wetness and the redness and the connections clicked inside his brain. "Plug's broken," he slurred, remembering Simmons' explanation as Sarge attempted to haul him up again.

"Put a plug in it, soldier," Sarge barked and struggled under the weight. "Quit yer yammering and save it for Donut's Feeling Hour."

"That's still a thing?" Grif whined breathlessly, one hand on the wound. He seriously doubted he was actually walking since the feeling had disappeared from both of his feet. A second later he crumbled to the ground, dragging Sarge with him.

"Shit," Grif said quietly as he tried to somewhat sit up. He ended up with his back against the wall, the room spinning slightly. Deciding not to look at what felt like a bonfire in his torso, Grif tried to focus on his legs that were sprawled out in front of him. A blood of drop had trickled down one of the armor plates while Sarge had kept him upright.

"Don't suppose you brought any aloe vera?" Sarge asked him. He was carrying his shotgun in his hands again.

Grif let out a weak snort as an answer.

"Dagnabbit."

Well.

 _Shit_.

Grif slammed the back of his head against the wall. It just ended up being a comfortable position for a nap.

No way Sarge was dragging him out of here. Grif was aware of his own weight, and Sarge did not exactly have Caboose' strength. So that meant…

Grif licked his lips. An Oreo would be very nice right now. Or those tacos they were supposed to serve tonight. Was it dinner time yet?

Well, at least the pirates were not going to have the honor of shooting him. They would just step on a mine and Grif would just be in the way.

Wait, that did not sound right. If this was, well, if this was going to be the end of his tale, it should at least be told right. He was going to sacrifice himself in a glorious explosion, wiping out the enemies as he heroically saved his friends. No one would ever mention pink armor or Grif was going to hunt their ass.

Yeah, that story did sound cooler. Still sucked though. 'cause of the whole being dead thing.

"You could…" Grif trailed off but accidently revealed his thoughts as he glanced towards the escape exit. Sarge could still move. He could, well… Wasn't really any reason for him to go out as well. Unless he truly meant the whole big explosion thing.

Sarge huffed.

None of them really felt like talking about this, apparently.

Grif decided to make it easier for the both of them. He closed the eyes, allowing Sarge to sneak out unnoticed. No reason to stay awake, actually. Either the pirates were going to enter and blow up the place, or the others were going to arrive and save them. Grif did not really have an active part in any of those scenarios.

He must have drifted off and when he opened his eyes again he was not alone.

First thing he noticed was the pirate that had carefully stepped around the mines. He was aiming at someone, and since the rifle was not lowered towards the floor, Grif realized he was not the target. He turned his head and saw Sarge with his shotgun raised. Huh. Old man hadn't left after all.

Grif would have felt touched, had it not been one of those sickly sweet feelings that only Donut should handle.

"-so what are you gonna do? Shoot me?" The pirate laughed which was strange since people normally did not find death threats funny. Maybe he was crazy. That could be possible.

"Don't you test me. I only have one way of watching firework: real up-close with the limbs of my enemies flying in the air."

It took some time before Grif realized why Sarge was somehow keeping his trigger-finger in control. They had spread the mines all over the entrance area. While the pirate had been smart enough not to get himself blown up (which was a surprise, really) chances were his body would trigger one of the mines when it fell about being blown full of shotgun shells.

Well, shit.

Grif still had a pistol strapped to his thigh but he did not even try to reach for it. It would be useless anyway, unless he wanted to hurry up the explosion.

The pirate had to be smirking. Sarge had been clever enough to make a free way to the escape exit in order to make their retreat smooth – even though it had not turned out smooth at all. But at least they had not committed suicide by landmine.

But this also meant that the pirate could shoot both of them without triggering the explosion. Grif wished he could be surprised but their amount of bad luck, but it wasn't as shocking as it was supposed to feel.

Sarge growled and seemed to increase the pressure on the trigger.

Oh well. Sarge had already explained how he was not afraid to die in an explosion. And to be honest, Grif would rather pull a stupidass stunt on the pirate instead of just receiving a bullet in the head. So he decided to keep his mouth shut and let Sarge do what he did best.

"Sucks to be you," the pirate said and took one step forward.

"Hah." Sarge sounded way too confident given their situation. Oh well, at least they would go out in style. "Coming from a dirtbag who's just about to be sarged-"

He was just about to pull the trigger when voiced yelled, "KEEP YOUR DISTANCE!"

The pirate froze, Sarge hesitated and Grif dropped his jaw in wonder. He stared at his helmet that they had left in the other corner of the room, behind the pirate. "The fuck-?"

The pirate was just about to turn around when the voice called out again: "DON'T MOVE!"

"Who's-"

"DROP IT!"

"Wha-"

" _DROP IT_!"

Grif had come to the conclusion that he had no idea of what was happening. But at least it seemed to postpone their death a bit. The voice sounded strangely like Lopez – except that Lopez could not speak English.

"You heard him," Grif told the pirate because _fuck it_ they could just as well play along with whatever was happening. "Drop the gun. He's right behind you, dude. Ready to catch your ugly-ass body."

Sarge glanced quickly at Grif but then made sure his own shotgun was aimed directly at the pirate's head.

After a moment the pirate began to lower his gun. "You fucking-"

"YOU SHOULD NOT USE A HAMMER FOR THIS, YOU MORON!" The voice then turned into static, loud and ugly and totally ruining their plan. If it could even be called a plan. Maybe it was just good luck. Or fate's weird way of being kind. Didn't really matter since it only lasted this briefly.

Grif's brain struggled to keep up. Maybe it was the blood loss. Or maybe things were just fucking weird.

"The fuck?" the pirate asked. He turned around to see the helmet. It was still playing the static, as if it was letting out some horrible scream.

He chuckled, turning around to aim his rifle at Sarge again. "And this is what you call 'being sarged'?"

"No." Sarge raised his head, finger tightening around the trigger. " _This_ is-"

He was cut off by the most ridiculous, annoying, wonderful sound in the world.

The warthog's theme music.

It was slightly disturbed by the sound of the machine gun and the Lieutenant's excited battles cries, but Grif could recognize it anywhere.

"Well fucking shit," he exclaimed as his hand weakly slid off his stomach. "This is a fucking mass suicide!"

* * *

"If you could just stay still," Jensen tried, fingers dancing above the surface of the helmet. The robot pulled back and the Lieutenant felt how she once again pushed some buttons by accident. It would have been easier if Lopez would stop jerking away from her but she seemed to have lost his trust. Again.

With a sigh she turned around to go to her tool box. One of the plate near his chest panel refused to be shut close and now was the time for drastic measures.

Jensen had barely turned around before Lopez called out: "KEEP YOUR DISTANCE!"

"I'm just-"

"DON'T MOVE!" The robot managed to look both furious and terrified on the same time, hands raised to create a shield between them. He seemed to be staring daggers at the hammer in her hand.

"DROP IT!"

"But-"

" _DROP IT_!"

She should probably stop arguing with him since her statements would be rubbish anyway. But still… Jensen was determined to fix her mistakes and she strode towards Lopez with confident steps.

"YOU SHOULD NOT USE A HAMMER FOR THIS, YOU MORON!"

Jensen tried not to let his insults hurt her. At least he allowed her to keep working on the panel eventually.

…But maybe he was just as desperate as she felt.

* * *

A/N: Ah, I finally finished this. Sorry for the wait – Sarge's lines were being a pain in the ass to the point I suffered writer's block. But I beat it in the end.

I'm actually kind of happy with how this chapter turned out. Much of it wasn't planned when I first began writing this story but I'm glad with how it all turned out.

Thanks for the support, guys! It means a lot!

So far there should be one chapter left. If it turns out longer than expected I might split it in two. But we're close to the end, guys!


	7. Shotgun

**Seeing Red ('Cause That's a Lot of Blood)  
** _Shotgun_

"So…" Palomo began. "I'm bored. Why bring us on a rescue mission if we aren't doing rescuing?"

"That's no reason to complain." Bitters was slumped over the steering wheel, ready to drive when they were called – something that had not happened so far, despite the echoes of gunshots that they could hear in the distance. "'Least we aren't getting shot."

"But…" Matthews was fiddling with his thumbs. "We aren't really rescuing anybody either."

Bitter raised his head briefly to stare into the canyon bellow them.

"Shouldn't we, I don't know, do something?" Palomo asked with a shrug. "We still have the machine guns…" He patted one of them for emphasis.

"Captain Simmons told us to wait for the signal," Smith replied. His visor was fixated on the valley, checking for any movement. The shelter itself was still out of their sight, but they could sense that something was going on. The tension was filling the air, even from this distance.

"But what is the signal?" Matthews wondered out loud. What followed was seconds of silence as the Lieutenants realized that was a fairly good question.

"Maybe the signal is no signal," Palomo suggested. He then held up his hands, preventing them from immediately calling his theory stupid – something that was bound to happen. "Just follow me here. With no signal, we just have silence. The bad kind of silence. The too silent silence. Which we all know is a signal to be freaked out. So, in fact, no signal is actually a signal. They clearly need our help now."

The others shared glances for a moment. "Palomo, that's a very… well-thought idea but I do believe Captain Simmons is a man that would follow the standard procedure," Smith said but then shifted in discomfort. Things had been quiet for too long. "But-"

"But he might be right," Bitters finished for him before letting out a sigh. "Well, shit."

They all edged closer to the canyon entrance, and another gunshot rang out in the distance. "Could that be the signal?" Matthews suggested, mainly because they all felt inclined to do something now.

"Eh," Bitters said but readied himself in the driver seat anyway. Matthews climbed behind the machine gun, getting into position as well.

"Okay, who votes for that as the signal?" Palomo asked and immediately raised his own hand. Some seconds after, he was able to count four hands in the air. "Great." He swung himself behind the gun. "Uhm, should we have a battle cry or something? Or should we…"

Their radios suddenly flared to life with static before Simmons' voice called out: "We need you to- _Oh fucking shit_!"

"Actually," Palomo said as they all froze after the alarming message, "I'm gonna revote. I think _that_ was the signal."

"Really?" Bitters snorted before stepping on the speeder. The engine awoke with a growl that was quickly followed by the sweet sound of the warthhog's theme music. "How do you turn this shit off?"

"Aw, but I like it," Matthews complained softly. To his luck no one really knew how to get the radios to shut up.

"Attack!" Palomo called out in excitement.

And then the young soldiers charged down into the valley.

* * *

Simmons looked through the scope, pulled his head back, inhaled deeply, and then he looked again. "I, uhm… I think I might have hit him." He squinted to get a closer look. "Wait, I actually did hit him."

"You got your man?" Donut asked, more happy than surprised. Simmons seemed to be the one most shocked. "That's great!"

"Well, we're only half-way there."

"That sounds exciting!"

The maroon soldier shot his teammate another glare. Now they only had one sniper to focus on; the one on the other side of the canyon.

But that sole number was less comforting than it should be. "Where are the other assholes?" Simmons muttered under his breath. The place had been crawling with the pirates, like the lice Grif had once brought to their sleeping quarters, and, ugh, Simmons felt like scratching himself just at the thought.

If the pirates were not up here with them then they had to be down there with…

"Do you hear that?" Donut asked, head tilted towards the faint noise beneath them.

And yes, Simmons did indeed hear that, and his stomach dropped as he did so. "What the fuck are they doing?" he asked, standing up to look down at the jeeps that were for some reason entering the canyon at full speed. "They were supposed to wait for _my_ signal! And _I_ just told them to get ready-"

Donut suddenly grabbed his arm, pulling him down behind cover before the sniper could get him.

* * *

As Grif's hands slid from his stomach, he managed to reach down to grab the pistol that was still strapped to his hip.

The pirate in the doorway turned around in an attempt to locate the source of the incoming polka music, as did the Reds though they had an idea of what was coming.

A second later the pirate exclaimed, " _Oh shit_!" and leapt over the mines in front of him, landing in the safe space Sarge had created in the other end of the shelter.

The pirate had hoped to provide himself cover from the newcomers – and Grif felt more than ready to disappoint him.

His arm felt too heavy to be lifted properly and his vision was still swimming, so all he truly managed was to shoot a line of bullets against the wall, some almost a meter away from the attended target.

At least it worked as a distraction: the pirate turned his visor towards Grif, either about to mock his weak attempt or to simply just shoot and kill him already, but he never had the chance since Sarge finally pulled the trigger and proceeded to blow out the back of his head.

The body fell right in front of Grif who had closed his eyes again at this point: partly because he was so fucking tired but, well, that was a lot of blood and grey brainy stuff. Not something he enjoyed looking at, even though the asshole did deserve it.

"Were you trying to hit him, dirtbag?" Sarge said, pointing towards the marks Grif had left in the wall. "Or did the wall insult your mother?"

Grif did not feel like answering. He could hear the easily recognized sound of a machine gun shooting like crazy as well as some excited cries that told him the newcomers were the Lieutenants and –

"I'm coming, Captain Grif!"

Grif let out a sigh. "Matthews…"

He could not even die in peace. Chances were the Private would be using his last chance to ask for a promotion. Or cry. Definitely cry. And call Grif the best Captain ever. Maybe even try to hold his hand like Palomo had done with Tucker.

Grif decided to save enough strength to be able to flip off Matthews should he come that close.

However, that strength was used to call out, " _STOP_! Jesus!"

At least it worked. Matthews froze in the doorway, one foot lifted to take the next step, but then he looked down, noticing the mine he would have triggered. "Oh my god…"

"Have you never been taught to use the doorbell?" Sarge huffed but then watched carefully as the Private maneuvered his way around the traps.

Matthews kneeled down next to Grif. "Oh, that's… That's blood."

"You don't say," Grif spat, clenching a fist when his soldier touched a particularly sore spot. "Don't suppose you brought a medkit?"

"We did!" Matthews said proudly, and Grif could have fainted in relief. But then… "It's in the back of the jeep, right next to the… machine gun. Oh no." And then Matthews realized his mistake.

* * *

"For fuck's sake, Matthews," Bitters swore and swerved to the left. In his eagerness to help their Captain, the Private had leapt from the jeep and rushed towards the shelter, forgetting that they needed someone to control the machine gun.

Now Bitters was driving around an empty jeep, trying to avoid the bullets that were fired at him.

Smith and Palomo were keeping two pirates pinned down behind a rock, making sure they were going nowhere. But three assholes were still firing at Bitters.

He avoided them for a time, turning directions abruptly to make himself a smaller target, but he quickly came to the conclusion: "Fuck it." Stepping down in the speeder, he drove directly towards one of them; and never stopped.

There was a satisfying bump as he ran over the idiot but Bitters barely had the time to smile smugly behind his visor before he realized his situation: the two other pirates were now aiming at him and he did not have enough time to back away. His smile faltered.

Then, amazingly, something landed between the two assholes. They both looked down in wonder and before they could even realize it was a grenade, it had exploded in their faces.

"What the fuck?" Bitters said, shrugging slightly.

Not that he was complaining or anything.

* * *

"Donut, throw your grenade!" Simmons said, trying to get a view of the sniper while still staying in the safety of the rock.

Donut _threw_. The way only Donut could throw. The grenade sailed across the canyon in a magnificent arc, heading towards the pirate who was also looking up in wonder. The sight was enthralling.

Like a majestic bird closing in on its target, it began to descend…

The three soldiers all bowed their heads to follow the sight of the grenade that plummeted too early.

Instead of hitting the soldier, it did not even reach the other side of the canyon but instead dropped in the middle of it.

They could hear the faint sound of the explosion even all the way up to where they were standing.

"I… Did I miss?" Donut asked in disbelief. "I never miss!"

"We can't all get our man," Simmons said in comfort before realizing just what he had said and immediately he pulled back the hand he had put on Donut's shoulder.

"But I always get it the right place the first time!"

"Please tell me you have one more grenade left," Simmons said, getting behind cover against since the pirate seemed to have pulled himself out of the stunned silence after the weak attempt to kill him.

Donut held up the last grenade with an excited squeal.

"Okay, just imagined he called you pink or something," Simmons said as he crouched down next to his teammate. Simmons knew that Donut had a better chance of killing the pirate than Simmons hitting him with the sniper rifle.

"That's very judgmental of you, Simmons! We don't know him!"

"Well, we know they all had three crates filled with perfectly quality-armor… and they all refused to wear it because it was pink," Simmons pointed out dryly.

That did the trick. Donut tensed, turned his helmet towards the enemy, and muttered darkly, "Oh, it is on. Agent Double-O Donut will not-"

"Just throw it!"

And so Donut did. Again. And the arc seemed even more majestic this time. It sailed through the air and-

"You missed," Simmons said, dumbfounded. "Again. This is almost embarrassing for you-"

The grenade had not managed to go all the way, but instead they watched in wonder how it smashed against the cliff wall around two meters from the edge. When it exploded, it took a part of the cliff wall with it – and the pirate was sent screaming down into the valley when the ground disappeared under his feet.

"Huh," Simmons said as he and his teammate stood up since there was no longer a reason to stay behind cover. "I guess that worked."

Donut pumped a fist into the air. "Agent Double-O Donut always gets his man! The climax might be a little late but you can't blame the technique – sometimes it's all about patience!"

"Or luck," Simmons muttered and desperately hoped that luck was enough to keep their friends alive.

* * *

"Jensen?" Kimball asked as she stepped into the hall. "I was informed that you had remained behind to… Oh." The General let out a surprised sound when she saw that he Lieutenant was indeed working on the robot. In fact, her fingers were forced deep into Lopez' chest panel. "I see the rumors were true."

"There was a small accident," Jensen revealed gingerly. "And then another accident… Am I needed elsewhere?"

"Have you had any contact with the extraction team? None of them have reported in lately and they don't answer when…" Kimball trained off when sparks emitted from the panel. Lopez' body jerked slightly, and even Jensen pulled back slightly. The General watched in concern. "Was that supposed to happen?"

Jensen tore off her helmet to blow out the small fire. "Well, it doesn't look too damaged," she said when the small cloud of smoke had been cleared. "And he's been through worse. Unfortunately. Sorry, Lopez."

The General had been worried for hours, ever since the report of Captain Grif's and Colonel Sarge's current situation, but now her worry was directed at the poor Lopez who seemed to be frozen. "Does this… Can you feel that?"

"I don't think so," Jensen replied when the robot did not as much as turn his head. "…at least I hope not."

" _End this suffering_ ," the robot's monotone voice suddenly rung out.

Even with the visor hiding it, it was clear that Kimball widened her eyes at the sound. "Did he just-"

"I'm working on it," Jensen promised and patted the robot's shoulder. "Just a bit longer, Lopez."

"Does this mean his speech unit has been fixed?"

"Unfortunately… no. Just give me five more minutes," Jensen said while picking up a screwdriver.

Kimball sent the scene once last concerned glance, taking in the robot's emotionless but somehow still horrified visor. "I'll leave you to it then. Please report if you hear anything from them."

When she left, Jensen was left to work in silence. Lopez pretty much refused to speak at this point, and the Lieutenant had quickly realized that her nervous bickering was not helping – well, at least at was not helping Lopez.

But the silence made it easier to focus and around ten minutes later Jensen was able to exclaim, "Heureka! …I hope. Try talking."

"Si has estropeado esto de nuevo voy a encontrar una manera de autodestrucción." [If you have messed this up again I will find a way to self-destruct.]

The robot froze in surprise, as did Jensen. "Better late than never, huh?" she lisped, brushing a gloved hand against her forehead in relief.

Lopez, even with his newfound voice, said nothing. He straightened out his legs, stood up, and began to march out of the room.

Jensen remained on the ground, looking after him with a devastated look on her face. She fiddled her thumbs.

"I'm _really_ sorry," she said again. "I should have looked where I was driving."

"No deberías haber estado en el jeep en primer lugar." [You should not have been in the jeep in the first place.]

"And I should have stopped after I fixed your arm. And not follow my crazy ideas. And I should have known when I'm completely unqualified, Jensen, _you know this_!" she scolded herself before burying her face in her hands.

Lopez was standing in the doorway when he froze.

When Jensen finally removed her hands from her face, knuckles brushing away a frustrated tear in the process, she looked up to see Lopez offering her the rare VDO 1x85mm screwdriver, and Jensen smiled.

* * *

"Palomo!" Smith called out but received no answer. " _PALOMO!_ "

But the Lieutenant kept firing, and the sound of the machine gun drowned out Smith's orders. Either he did not realize he was hitting nothing else than the rock, or perhaps he just believed that keeping them pinned down there was the best idea.

At least it kept the pirates from shooting back. It was the same hesitation that kept Smith from moving the jeep: if he drove either forward or backwards at least one of the pirates would gain the opportunity to shoot back. Then rather have them pinned down, even though it was just a question of time before they ran out of bullets…

Someone honked their horn loudly but the sound could barely be heard through Palomo's constant firing. But Smith saw Bitters racing towards them, never slowing down, and before the pirates could react they had both kissed his bumper.

Smith drove forward; making sure Palomo could finish him off with his machine gun. "Sorry," he said when he finally let go of the trigger. "Where you saying something?"

He sounded sincere so Smith replied calmly, "My comment is no longer relevant."

"Great!" Palomo exclaimed before looking towards the shelter. "So is Captain Grif alive?"

Bitters jumped out of the jeep to investigate the matter himself. Unlike Matthews he actually noticed the mines before entering the shelter. He looked up to stare at Sarge who was still keeping a close look on the entrance. "What? Were you expecting us?" the Lieutenant snorted dryly.

"You count on it," the Sergeant told him. "Now help us carry this heavy meatsack out of here before I change my mind."

They ended up going through the hole Sarge had created in order to avoid the mines, and somehow they managed to squeeze around the side of the shelter. Smith came to help; he and Bitters were trying to hold Grif's torso while Matthews took care of the legs. Sarge stayed close to order Grif to weigh less.

The Captain was drifting in and out but somehow could not manage to fall completely asleep. "Ow," Grif muttered as he was hauled towards the jeep. Every time one of them would pull his limbs too hard, the fire in his torso would spread again. When they dropped him on the back of jeep, he let out a grunt of pain. " _Ow_ ," he said again, more sternly this time.

"You can complain when Grey's working on you, asshole."

"Simmons?"

The maroon soldier had arrived inside the valley along with Donut, and had now run from one jeep to another, medkit in his hand. "We need to get his clothes off," he muttered as he pulled out the biofoam, mentally repeating the correct procedure.

"I can help!" Donut offered, and together with Simmons they managed to cut open the under-armor, revealing the wound beneath. Grif winched and he guessed his teammates did the same when they took in the details.

"That's… That's a looot of blood," Matthews said from somewhere outside Grif's field of vision. The young soldier sounded more light-headed than Grif felt.

There was a sound of something heavy hitting the ground, followed by Bitters cursing, "For fuck's sake, Matthews."

When Grif opened his eyes again, Simmons was holding the can of biofoam. Reacting by instinct, Grif attempted to drag himself backwards by the elbows. "No way. I'm not doing that shit again, it _hurts_."

"Well, _I'm_ not a surgeon and Sarge does not have any tools and this place is highly unhygienic anyway, so yes, you are absolutely doing this again."

"Hell no," Grif said and tried to shield the wound without touching it.

Simmons easily forced his hands aside. "It's this or bleeding out. Seriously, Grif."

"Just… Give me a minute to consider."

"Ah, quit your bellyaching," Sarge growled.

"That thing is going to give me a bellyache," Grif snorted, staring at the can that felt like it was filled with flames.

Before he could complain again, Sarge promptly smashed the bottom of his shotgun against his temple. Grif's head fell limply against the deck of the jeep.

"I hit the mute button," Sarge explained. "All that whining and moaning was taking too long."

"Works for me," Simmons replied with a shrug and leaned forward to being the procedure. Donut looked nervously over his shoulder as the cyborg worked. Through the ordeal, Grif's body would twitch every once in a while but he remained unconscious.

When the work was job and Bitters had helped him push the rest of Grif into the jeep, Simmons prepared to sit behind the wheel. Before he could get so far, Tucker contacted him through the radio.

"So, uhm… We may have lost track of the pirates. And some of us may be taking this harder than others." Simmons was faintly sure he could hear Carolina yelling in the background. "Just a head ups: they could be heading back to the compound. Or they could be heading to the freaking North Pole for all we know. I tried to contact Grif but he isn't answering. Figure you could pass on the warning. Guy's probably taking a nap on the job or something."

"Yeah," Simmons said, looking over his shoulder to glance at his unconscious teammate in the back of the warthog. "Someone like that."

"Hey, Sarge?" Donut called out from the seat next to Simmons. "Where are you going?"

"Smoke cover. We have just enough explosives for the right size explosion."

"But," Simmons argued weakly, "the enemies are dead. "Shouldn't we attempt to disarm the mines and colle-"

"And what about my armor?"

Donut's comment was the last thing said in this argument.

The jeeps left the canyon with a big cloud of smoking rising behind them, coming from the remains of the shack that had now been blown into smithereens.

* * *

Grif woke up to the wonderful sound of someone saying, "Usted piensa que tuvo un momento difícil? Yo era el que estaba atrapado con una loca?"

"Oh thank god," he muttered, leaning further back into what felt like a heavily soft pillow. "Lopez is still Spanish. I have not lost my mind."

"Well, you are pretty high on painkillers." Grif opened his eye slightly to see Simmons leaning against a white wall. "But Sarge also claimed to have heard Lopez' long lost British brother in the radio."

"His name is John," Donut explained, holding out his hands in a dramatic motion. "He went to chase his true love-"

" _Donut_ -"

"-but was catfished!"

Simmons sent him a glare. "Drop it!" After inhaling deeply, he turned towards the patient again. "Anyways, we don't really know what exactly happened there but Lopez is all normal so…"

"¿Por qué me llamas normal? Ahora estoy sufriendo de traumas." [Why are you calling me normal? I am now suffering from traumas.]

Grif tried to sit up and was surprised by the lack of pain. Granted, he didn't feel anything anywhere. Probably why Simmons had talked about painkillers… "Wait… I'm not dead?"

"You're observant today," Simmons snorted, though the snarkiness was only half-hearted.

"Don't you remember?" Donut asked, leaning in over the bed. "We found you and stuffed your hole."

"I'm… pretty happy I do not remember that."

Grif settled back against the pillow again, closing his eyes as he truly realized how comfortable he was. It had been a while since he had been allowed to rest in a bed this soft.

"Doesn't surprise me. Sarge did manage to give you a concussion when he knocked you out," Simmons revealed with a shrug.

That caused Grif's eyes to snap open again. "Wait, Sarge saves me by fucking breaking my skull?"

"Consider it punishment for not dying properly when it had already been scheduled. Look at how many people who had to abandon orders to save your sorry hide. Shameful. You never question fate, dirtbag. Next time, die immediately without all that whining and moaning. Save us all some time."

Grif had not realized Sarge was in the room before now. The Colonel was still wearing full body armor, having placed himself in the corner of the room. His visor was turned towards the hospital bed.

"I'll be sure to make a mental note of that," Grif said dryly.

"Well," Simmons said, straightening out his back as he began to walk out of the room. "I'll check with Dr. Grey to see whether you're dying from any infections."

"Only come back with good news, Simmons. My poor heart can only take that many disappointments in one day. Why won't the gods just take him already?"

When Simmons walked out, the hospital room was left in a thick silence. Grif's head was buzzing slightly but not in alarming way as it had felt like when it had been caused by blood loss. This was more gentle, comforting. And Grif truly felt like he could sleep for days. Maybe now he would actually be allowed to do so.

Something kept him from falling asleep immediately, however. Like an annoying tingle in the back of his mind.

His vision was still a bit blurry but Grif managed to focus it on the red soldier in the other end of the room. "It's probably the painkillers making me say this," he began. He made sure not to gain eye-contact with Sarge's visor. "Like, it can't be anything else. But, you know, not just ditching me out there… it was a pretty not-shitty thing to do… So yay and all that. And, well, thanks."

"Don't mention it," Sarge huffed with crossed arms. "As in a gravely, never-to-be-questioned order: we are never bringing up this day again."

"Fine with me."

Grif closed his eyes again, pressing the back of his head deeper into the pillow. The urge to nap was back again, though not as frightening this time. Thank fucking god: the fact that he had disliked the thought of sleep for a second was one of the crazier part of the day.

But before the Hawaiian could truly nod off, he heard someone sniff in the background. It could not be Sarge (unless these drugs were truly taking him on a joyride) which meant…

"Donut is still here, isn't he?" Grif sighed without opening his eyes. He knew he had forgotten something.

"Yep."

Another sniffle. "This is so beautiful!"

"Fuck off, Donut!"

"¿Por qué siempre me supervisaste también? Ni siquiera quería ser testigo de esto." [Why did you always oversee me as well? I did not even want to witness this.]

* * *

"Oh, he'll be fine. Give him week's recovery or two," Grey said, looking briefly at the tablet she was holding. Her bloody gloves left a red stripe across it. "Extracting the bullet and patching up the wound really wasn't that tricky. But then I had to take care of that nasty concussion and that made it all a bit more entertaining!"

Simmons nodded since that statement was somewhat comforting. "Good. Good."

The Doctor walked off then – there were always major and minor incidents to deal with. And apparently Feierstein's party had become rather wild, resulting in at least two accidents involving a stun gun. The details were still fuzzy.

The cyborg had just turned around to return to Grif's room when an aqua-armored soldier came walking in a hasty pace from the other end of the hallway. When he noticed Simmons, he sped up even further. "Why is Palomo telling me he saw Grif's intestines?"

"That may be an exaggeration… But he was shot."

Tucker let out an impressed whistle. "Sounds like someone had a worse day than us. He okay?"

Simmons nodded. "Already out of surgery. Sarge did manage to give him a concussion though."

"And there's nothing worse than a sore head." Donut was suddenly there as well. None of them had heard him come closer, and the two other soldiers jumped in surprise. "What a crazy day, huh?"

"I don't know." Tucker crossed his arms. "Sarge beating up Grif? Sounds pretty normal to me."

"Oh, Sarge didn't shoot him," Donut cut in before Simmons could tell his own explanation. "Dirtbag Numero Dos did!"

"Donut, I don't think-" Simmons tried to correct him but gave up with a sigh.

"But then you guys came to the rescue?" Tucker concluded. "So you saved the supplies?"

Simmons winched. "Technically yes. But technically no."

"Well," Tucker shrugged, "at least no one died. I mean, no one we care about."

"Oh, we leave all the dramatic deaths to your team," Simmons snorted dryly. "It works better that way."

"Don't say our day wasn't dramatic! Fit for a novel if you ask me!" Donut chirped. "Sarge heroically saving Grif… Of course Simmons and I missed the most of it. Not funny I tell you: the amount of anticipation we went through… But when I finally got Simmons to stop screaming, I think we handled the situation rather well. We got our man. Well, _men_. This whole conflict was caused from more men appearing than expected. Not that we were overwhelmed: it'll take more to get us on our knees."

Tucker held up a hand, signaling he needed some second to comprehend this information. When he spoke again, he was looking at Simmons, "Wait, Sarge saved Grif's life? Donut told you to stop running around screaming? What the hell happened here?!"

"I didn't scream," Simmons huffed. He crossed his arm and raised his head to look confident – and failed. "It was merely a nervous breakdown which was totally expected given the circumstances."

"Okay. Seriously. What the fuck?" Tucker asked, glancing from one Red to another.

"I don't even know." Simmons shook his head before he and his friends walked down the hallway, towards the hospital room where Grif would be resting the rest of the week if he got his wish. The maroon soldier let out a disbelieving snort. "Jensen keeps claiming she taught Lopez to speak English. Now that's crazy."

* * *

A/N: Done! Sorry for the wait; I have been caught up with the bingo! I have literally taught myself to drink coffee in order to stay awake and finish this story.

But… This is the end, guys! We did it!

Thank you so much for sticking with me so far! Thank you for every view, kudos and comment! I hope you all enjoyed; it has been a blast writing this fic, though Sarge dialogue is always a pain!

I still have so many other RvB fics to take care of so I won't disappear. Feel free to visit some of my other stories (if you haven't already) if you feel like it.

Thank you! Truly! You have all been awesome readers, and I hope this fic was what you wished for!


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